


Know Your Exits

by cj2017



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-25
Updated: 2009-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cj2017/pseuds/cj2017
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Category: Action/adventure, hurt/comfort, bit of sex thrown in for good measure<br/>Notes: A sequel to Never a Good Day/Close to Normal, this continues to play away from show-canon although it will probably make a hell of a lot more sense if you have a decent working knowledge of Adam Raised a Cain and Born to Run. I'm still shocked that I seem to have written something that faintly resembles a plot… Speaking of shock, if you never read Close to Normal then the first three of pages of this one might surprise you…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Mainly Sarah and Derek (and definitely Sarah/Derek) but pretty much a whole-team affair. Yes, I finally gave John and Cameron more than a cameo.  
> Rating: Hard M: violence, sex, huge amounts of bad language, discussion of adult themes, a pretty spectacular body count, casual slaughter of the innocent (including one minor series character), and scenes of a medical nature that might cause queasiness in those with a sensitive disposition.  
> Thanks, as ever, to Cat who fixes all my fuck-ups, puts up with the crazy and didn't even raise an eyebrow when I took the writing pad on holiday. A huge thanks to RoxyB for the de-Britishis(z!)ation, and for not running a bloody mile when I told her it was 30,000 words long.  
> Disclaimer: Don't own them. Wish I did. And I have shamelessly pinched some of their dialogue.

"Go."

Derek Reese heard the finality in the order and knew that she had made her decision. There would be no more time to table any options, no time for the arguments that he still hadn't voiced.

"They're not looking for you. They don't even know you're here. Go back to John." Then a word she rarely used, in a tone he had never heard before, "Please."

"Fuck." He spat the curse out in frustration, at her for being right, at himself for not seeing this coming, and at a fate that so unerringly caused everything they touched to go to shit. "Fuck." He ignored the throbbing in his hand where he had pounded it against the steering wheel.

When she spoke again, he could hear the relief in her voice.

"The bag's in the trash in the men's room, at the entrance."

"I'll get it."

"Give it a couple of hours."

"I will. I'll get it. Don't worry about John."

He cut the call off abruptly, to avoid forcing her to respond to that. Crouching low in the dark, he kept his eyes fixed on the frosted glass of the door. She apparently took a second or two to compose herself, then he saw the door pulled open slowly and she stepped out, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the spotlight that was suddenly turned on her. A bullhorn screeched once before a man in a suit spoke, his words carrying across the parking lot with ease.

"Sarah Connor. Put your hands behind your head. Kneel on the ground!"

. . . . .

Twenty-four hours earlier

Sarah's muscles burned, sweat soaking her thin white tank-top and streaking into her eyes. She could feel her fingers cramping around the metal, and the rhythmic stabbing at the side of her torso where her fractured ribs were still knitting together. That morning, she had decided that she had been sitting on her ass for long enough. After a five-mile run in the coolness of the desert dawn, she had already managed twenty-five pull ups. The ache in her left arm was almost unbearable, but she gritted her teeth, strained and pulled again. She was going to complete thirty if it killed her.

. . . . .

The bedroom door clicked open just as Sarah was about to peel her top off. She hesitated, already knowing who would be standing behind her. Cameron rarely needed the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom, and John always knocked and waited for a reply, but one week ago Derek had stopped knocking. It had irritated her at first, until he had pointed out that Cameron was acutely attuned to sudden noises, and that the metal might find it slightly odd how many times he apparently required the bathroom during the night or the early hours of the morning. There was still every possibility that the machine was aware of their nocturnal activities, but John certainly wasn't, and blatantly drawing attention to them seemed uncalled for. It had taken Sarah the entire week, but she had just about quelled the urge to draw a weapon every time the door opened unannounced.

"Where's John?"

Derek's breath was hot on her neck as he answered her standard question. "It's six in the morning, Sarah. He's still asleep."

Pressed up behind her, she could feel the hard length of him through his sweatpants. She groaned low in her throat as his hands, already beneath her top, cupped her breasts and eased her back against him.

"I need a shower."

"Mmhmm." One hand was inside her bra, the other slipping below the waistband of her pants.

"Ahh, fuck." No more than a whisper, her teeth biting hard on her lip as his fingers found her hot and wet. "I really need a shower… Jesus!"

He held her still, two fingers stroking deep inside her. "Have one after. Don't waste the water." She felt him smile. "We are trying to save the planet here."

A twist of his fingers, driving home his point, and Sarah – quickly deciding that he made a good argument – nodded in agreement, spreading her legs to make things easier for him, and closing her eyes.

. . . . .

"Morning."

"Hey." Sarah looked up from the stack of printouts and smiled at her son as he headed straight for the refrigerator. "There's batter mixed if you want pancakes." She was rising from the chair, but he motioned for her to sit down and began to heat up the skillet himself.

He poured her a fresh mug of coffee and set it down on the table. Before they had come to the safehouse, she would have suspected that some terrible misdeed lurked behind his solicitousness, but he seemed to have shaken off the pissy, brittle streak that had emerged after Sarkissian, and she knew that there was no ulterior motive or guilty conscience at play. Watching him pour the mix carefully into the skillet, she tried to ignore the flutter of guilt surrounding her own secrets.

Working his creations with a spatula, he smiled, oblivious to the thoughts troubling her. "You want any?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine. You have them."

The batter sizzled and spat, and he concentrated on staying out of its way, leaving her to continue reading through the papers.

"Anything in there this time?"

"What?" Her brow furrowed. John's plate was piled high with pancakes and she hadn't even gauged the time as it had passed.

He sat beside her and gestured with his fork. "You find anything useful?"

When Cameron had killed the Kaliba operative staking out their old house, she had returned with a file of paperwork and a gadget that John had identified as a Personal Digital Assistant. So far, the information in the paperwork had seen Cameron and Derek head out to chase several dead ends, but the PDA was proving to be slightly more promising, receiving requests for mission updates on regular occasions. John had been obliging, stringing together reports of the Baums' supposed activities, their movements and perceived weaknesses. Imitating her victim's voice, Cameron had spoken to someone identifying himself only as control, reassuring him that everything was proceeding according to plan, and had – in response – received a watch-and-wait mandate. Control had hinted that they might be switching targets, that their priorities were under review. That had been two days ago and there had been no contact since.

Sarah dropped the sheet she had been staring at but not reading, and sighed, a wry smile on her face. "No, there's nothing useful. Nothing that I didn't see the first twenty times I went through them."

"Still, no harm in being thorough."

"True."

His eyes suddenly lit up with mischief. "You want one of these, don't you?"

She did. The smell was making her mouth water, and she figured that all of her morning exertions – official and unofficial – had earned her a pancake or two. He grinned at her and slid three onto a spare plate, watching with silent satisfaction as she added more maple syrup to them.

"How come yours always taste better than mine, even when I made the batter?"

John laughed at the genuine look of bewilderment on her face and answered her through a mouthful. "Cos you really can't cook for shit, mom…"

. . . . .

Sitting on the porch, hands cradling a mug of coffee, Sarah could feel the chill edge of the breeze, could smell the moisture in the air as days of scorching heat threatened to come to a violent end. It was early in the afternoon and a dull rumble of thunder off to the west was promising a spectacular storm if the wind didn't shift. She sipped the coffee, watching the gray clouds mass and surge as a first fork of lightening split the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a young coyote howled, mournful and scared, and was reassured immediately by the deeper bark of an adult.

The screen door opened and Derek came out, pausing to stare at the sky before sitting down beside her with his own mug.

"Think it'll hit here?"

Lightening flashed again, closer this time, with the crack of thunder soon afterwards.

Sarah nodded. "Probably. The wind's about right."

"Yeah." Large spots of rain began to fall, splattering into the dust to leave individual pockmarks. "Got a lot of storms after the bombs fell."

She made a non-committal noise in reply, not wanting to push him for details, allowing him the opportunity to expand but not demanding it. It was an unspoken pattern that they had both fallen into. He took a breath, and when he continued his voice was calm, conversational. They were getting better at swapping their stories.

"I guess it was the fallout. The first winter killed off anyone who was already vulnerable. It went on for fucking months. No light, freezing temperatures; plants, animals, they all died." A pause while he drank, swallowing deliberately. "It snowed one night; we thought it was more ash at first. We'd only ever seen snow in the movies, and Kyle wanted to play out in it so fucking bad. We were sheltering in Griffith Park at the time and eventually I just gave in." He shrugged and laughed softly. "It was the middle of the night. We could hear HKs blowing the shit out of something in the city. Someone was screaming and crying, and Kyle made his snowman as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do."

"Maybe it was."

"What?" He looked at her, confused.

"Maybe it was his way of coping. He was, what? Eight years old?"

"Eight, yeah."

"Your world's blown to hell, your parents are dead and you're hiding from machines. Holding onto something safe and normal is a way to survive."

"Speaking from experience?" Like her, he didn't push, keeping his tone light to give her the option of answering or laughing the question off.

"Possibly." She dragged the word out, thinking about it, never really having applied the theory to herself. "I keep ending up as a waitress. I could probably get other jobs, but it's familiar and safe, and it's what I was before."

"Your normal life."

"I guess so." She smiled suddenly. "Except being a waitress is really fucking mind-numbingly boring."

It surprised a laugh out of him. "One thing about your life, Sarah. It's rarely – if ever – boring."

"True." The rain was harder now, the separate spots merging to transform the dust into mud. "But there is something to be said for a happy medium…"

He was about to reply when the screen door banged open, and they both looked up to see John, his expression a strange mixture of excitement and dread.

"I think you need to see this…"

. . . . .

The PDA was hooked up to John's laptop. Sarah stared at the image filling its screen with a sick sense of déjà vu.

"Shit."

Danny Dyson had grown up a lot in the years since she had seen him last, and the resemblance to his late father was striking. He was smiling broadly, the surveillance shot snapped in the street while he had been completely oblivious.

"Like father, like son?"

John's question echoed Sarah's own thoughts, and she shook her head, troubled by where those thoughts were taking her. "I hope not. Damn. I should've seen this one coming."

"Someone want to fill me in?" The edge to Derek's voice implied that he didn't much appreciate being out of the loop.

Cameron was scrolling through the text file on the PDA. "Daniel Dyson. Son of Miles Dyson, who was Director of Special Projects at Cyberdyne in 1997."

"Miles Dyson was killed in the blast at Cyberdyne. The one they accused you of causing."

Apparently Derek had been doing his research, and Sarah nodded in confirmation.

"I thought the kid looked familiar."

"Danny saw the machine in '97. He would have been aware of his father's work. Tarissa said he was away at school…" If there had been space in the small room, Sarah would have been pacing. "Whatever he's done there, or whatever they know about him in the future, it's been enough to interest Kaliba."

"Our operative has been ordered to switch assignments to assist in the requisition of the new target. He's been given today's date and an address." The information appeared highlighted as Cameron spoke.

Sarah swore softly. "That's Tarissa's address. Have they given a time?"

A further piece of text flashed up in bold, and she cursed again, more vehemently. They had eight hours.

. . . . .

"She's not answering." Sarah snapped her cell phone shut as Cameron moved past her carrying a shotgun and a duffel bag. Tarissa Dyson had been unreachable on her cell or private number, and a mounting sense of rushing headlong into a disaster was making Sarah incredibly uneasy. She waited until John was occupied loading the truck before she pulled Derek to one side.

"I want John to stay behind." She kept her voice low, needing Derek on board before she broached the issue with her son.

Derek was already shaking his head, a hand on her arm to lead her into the bedroom. "Of course you do." He shut the door behind them. "But it's not gonna happen."

"Why the fuck not?" She slapped his hand away, color rising in her cheeks. She was only going to be able to persuade John if Derek was there to back her up.

"Because there are only four of us and an unknown number of them, and if we left John here, that would mean leaving the metal, and we can't afford to do that."

She already had that part worked out. "You stay. Tarissa knows me. I can go with Cameron."

"No."

"No?" It came out higher than she had intended, anger eating into her self-control.

"No. When you go running off on your own, I have to scrape up the fucking pieces."

She stared at him, stunned, no reply forthcoming.

Something that might have been regret flashed briefly across his face, and for a second he appeared to be on the verge of recanting, but instead he opened the door.

"We stick together. All of us go."

He had left the room before she could argue, or launch anything at him, or just give in to instinct and shoot one of his kneecaps out.

"Son of a bitch." She slammed the bedroom door shut and punched her fist against it, making her knuckles throb. "Son of a bitch."

. . . . .

"We have three hours and forty-five minutes."

Cameron had taken it upon herself to assume the official role of timekeeper. They were the first words anyone had spoken for over an hour, and Sarah nodded in acknowledgement, despite not entirely appreciating the regular countdown to their deadline. In the backseat, Derek and John remained silent. A fresh burst of rain clattered against the windscreen, obliterating the road markings and forcing Sarah to decelerate.

"Would you like me to drive?" Cameron's vision was unaffected by the elements, making her suggestion an extremely sensible one, but even she had detected the undercurrent of tension in the truck, and the fact that Sarah appeared ready to strangle someone had made her reluctant to interfere previously.

"No, I'm fine." Concentrating on driving prevented Sarah from thinking about anything else. She switched the windshield wipers up a speed, adjusted the temperature of the defogger, then pushed her foot back down on the gas.

. . . . .

They arrived at the Dyson house with forty-three minutes to spare. Sarah extinguished the lights on the truck and crawled to a stop a discrete distance away from the property. Lights blazed in the expansive windows, glass and chrome glistening through the sheets of rain.

"Now what?" John sounded frustrated; no conversation in the car had meant no strategizing.

Sarah didn't hesitate. "I guess we try the front door."

. . . . .

The buzzer sounded hollow and persistent in the entrance hall, but no-one came to answer it.

"Can you open it?" Sarah could see a complex series of locks holding the door secure. Somewhat understandably, it seemed Tarissa Dyson wasn't taking any more chances with the safety of her family.

Giving the door frame an experimental push, Cameron performed a brief analysis of the door's structural integrity before nodding and stepping back to wait for her order.

"We'll take the front, you and John head around the back. Quick sweep and stick together. We find the Dysons and get the hell out." Sarah looked at John, who gave her a faint smile, and then at Derek, who moved to take up a covering position to the side of the door. Sweat trickled a hot path through the rain that was already soaking her to her skin. "Go."

Putting both of her hands against the door's metal edge, Cameron pushed steadily. It took little over a minute, the door's hinges giving way before its locks did. Crumpling awkwardly, it creased inwards with the ear-splitting shriek of something bending in a manner that was never intended.

Looking into the brightly-lit hallway, Sarah felt the hairs begin to prickle at the back of her neck. No-one was coming to investigate the noise. No intruder alarm blared. Aside from the lights there were no signs of life, and, not for the first time, she wondered exactly what the fuck they were walking into.

. . . . .

The living room was deserted. The drapes had been neatly pulled, and the television switched off, with its remote controls carefully arranged on its stand. There was nothing to indicate a disturbance; nothing was out of place, nothing upturned or smashed.

"Maybe they just went out for the night," Sarah whispered, not convinced by her theory at all. Kaliba had seemed certain that the Dysons would be home, which only served to deepen her sense that something was very wrong.

Shaking his head, Derek silently dismissed the idea out of hand, unsurprised when she didn't try to argue her point.

A further screech of metal signaled Cameron and John's entrance at the back of the house. Sarah left the living room quickly, determined to complete as much of the recon as she could without involving John. Her hand stilled on a closed door, and she looked to Derek. At his quick nod, she pushed the door open wide enough for him to duck inside.

"Oh God." The room was dark, and in the absence of vision the smell hit her immediately: sweet and foul, coppery and putrid.

"Sarah."

She walked slowly over to where Derek stood, following the beam of his flashlight down to the floor at the far side of the double bed, already knowing what awaited her.

Tarissa Dyson had never had a chance. Hauled out of her bed, she had been shot once in the chest and once in the head; her eyes were still wide with the shock and terror of meeting such a brutal end in the safety of her own bedroom. Sarah stared at the body for a long moment, her throat working convulsively as she swallowed back bile. Eventually she forced herself to look away, resisting the instinct to cover the body, to close its eyes and give the woman she had once known some dignity in death.

With a stranger's curiosity, Derek knelt at Tarissa's side, close but not touching, as he played his flashlight over her body. "Sarah, she's pooled."

"What?" The sense of foreboding turned instantly into a scream, shrill and persistent, drowning out her capacity for logic.

"She's been dead for hours. Probably since last night."

The poor light and Tarissa's dark skin had made it difficult to distinguish, but from his new position Derek could see where gravity had drawn her blood down to her body's lowest points, fixing it in the undersides of her arms and legs and the side of her face where it rested at a slight angle. He laid the back of his hand gently on her abdomen.

"She's cold."

The room was warm and humid, lending further credence to his theory. Sarah looked around, fear and confusion giving way to anger.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

The distinct clack of gunfire bit through the silence that her question had fallen into.

. . . . .

They were moving before they even realized, Derek taking point, both making a mockery of any sense of self-preservation by running towards the sound of the firefight.

As she sprinted on auto-pilot, Sarah heard the sharp retort of a weapon she didn't recognize answered immediately by two that she did. Suddenly, the short exchanges of small-arms fire were dominated by blasts from Cameron's shotgun, the weapon discharging repeatedly, drowning all the other sounds out.

They were closer now, close enough to hear the boom of something unnaturally heavy being thrown against the walls, shaking the foundations and forcing dust from the ceiling.

"Metal." Derek spat the word out like an expletive.

She nodded, eyes wide, wondering why the shooting had stopped. A closed door did nothing to muffle the noise, and Derek kicked it open without hesitation, quickly scanning the wreckage of the designer kitchen: the marble top of the breakfast bar had been shattered into pieces, wooden cupboards obliterated, their jars of cereal and pasta strewn across the floor and sprayed with red. Somewhere off to the left, a plaster wall trembled then gave way, and Derek side-stepped the debris to head in that direction.

Sarah stared at the floor, her heart pounding. The splatters of red continued away to the right, becoming wide smears at the point where the injured person had dropped and started to drag themselves. She followed the blood-smears around the side of a counter where they stopped abruptly and began instead to gather beneath the crumpled form of her son. Curled into a fetal position to try and make himself into the smallest target possible, John lay still and quiet. She couldn't tell whether he was breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

"John? John?" Sarah's voice was barely audible, but she wasn't aiming for stealth, she was just terrified of shouting loudly enough for him to hear but getting no response. Kneeling beside him, she tried to ignore the hot, sticky feel of his blood oozing into her jeans. His face was pale, cold, and beaded with sweat. Every breath he managed to take made blood froth and bubble at his lips. Splitting his T-shirt with her bare hands, she found a neat hole in his upper right chest and a larger, ragged one in his back where the bullet had exited. When she balled the material up and used it to try and stem the bleeding, he cried out, his hands reaching weakly in an attempt to push her away.

"Try not to move, John. You're okay. I'm gonna get you out of here. Just don't move."

More gunfire, Sarah barely registering it as she used her own shirt to wrap his chest. When she pulled him up into a sitting position, he whimpered, his eyes flying open, the pain making him instantly alert. He stopped pushing at her, wrapping his hands in her tank top instead and holding on tightly. "I'm sorry, mom."

"Don't be stupid. Not your fault." She hoped that he couldn't see how badly she was shaking. "Can you stand?"

His eyes were already closing. She took a deep breath, ducked her body low, and hauled him over her shoulder, using the counter for leverage as she dragged herself to her feet. She was halfway across the kitchen when gunfire exploded closer around her and she heard Derek yell out her name in warning. More shots, wild and frantic, and a sudden punch in her side that raced fire across her abdomen and forced her to drop down onto one knee. It stole her breath for a second, but she pushed herself back to her feet, hurtling through the kitchen door, leaving behind the clash of metal against metal and Derek's attempts to draw fire away from them with a rapid volley of shots and a snarl of "C'mon, you motherfucker."

. . . . .

The distance to the truck seemed insurmountable, but Sarah forced herself to take one step after another, grateful for the occasional burst of lightening that illuminated her path and stopped her from stumbling too frequently. The cacophony in the house grew fainter as she put more distance between them, and nothing gave chase. Her only fight now was against the elements and her below-par stamina.

Whoever, whatever had been waiting for them had approached the house from the rear, and the truck showed no signs of having been tampered with. Pulling the back door open, she laid John out across the seat, and then dragged the first aid kit from the trunk.

In the truck's meager light she could barely see the wound on his chest when she cut her ad hoc dressing away, but she could hear the sucking noise as air was pulled into it, and the terrible rattling breaths John was taking as his lung slowly collapsed. Half the first aid kit was strewn over the floor by the time she found what she so desperately needed, nothing more complicated than a large, square piece of plastic and a roll of tape. With trembling fingers, she laid the plastic over the wound, smoothing it down to make a tight seal and taping three sides of it to his chest. The next breath he drew sucked the plastic against the wound, preventing any further air from entering it. It took a couple of minutes until his breathing became slightly easier; he still struggled and strained, but he didn't deteriorate any further.

She was fixing a thick dressing across his back when she heard the rapid footsteps approaching. She was out in the rain with her gun in her hands before she saw that it was Derek and – slightly further away but closing the distance rapidly – Cameron. Sarah forced herself to wait and cover their retreat until they were both in the truck, before she returned to the back seat, crouching in the foot-well as Cameron spun the truck around with a screech of burning rubber and accelerated hard.

"The metal?" Sarah turned back to John, holding him steady as the truck bounced on the uneven access road and then turned right, picking up speed.

"Down an embankment. She threw it." Derek sounded as if he had just run a marathon at a sprint.

"I estimate a distance of six hundred to seven hundred yards with enough damage sustained to the left primary motor core to necessitate a critical repair."

"In English, Cameron," Sarah snapped, but bit back on an expletive. Her son's pulse was fast and faint where she gripped his wrist, but the fact that he had one at all was largely due to Cameron.

"He'll need to be offline whilst he restructures, but the damage is not irreparable." Deciding that was straight-forward enough, Cameron turned her attention back to the road.

Once they were well away from the house, Derek clambered into the backseat and stared at John, because that was far easier than looking at Sarah. "How's he doing?"

She shook her head once, too exhausted and too scared to give a prognosis.

"His lung collapsed?"

A nod, tears shining in her eyes.

"You've done a good job here." He double-checked the edges of the dressing; the tape was still holding despite the blood and sweat on John's chest. "He'll need a chest tube."

"I know… I've never…"

He touched her fingers briefly and she stiffened but didn't pull away.

"I have, I can do it. We've got all the kit. He'll be okay, Sarah."

More nodding, her teeth working fiercely on her bottom lip as she fought to hold herself together.

He looked away, turning to address Cameron. "Find us some shelter. Somewhere we can hole up for a few hours at least."

Cameron had already been looking and her answer was immediate. "There's an industrial complex thirty kilometers to the east. My GPS indicates a number of potentially secure buildings."

"Good." He dismissed her and turned back to Sarah. "Help me lift him a little. If we can put him onto his bad side, it'll give his good lung a better chance to work."

Relieved to have something to do, Sarah followed Derek's instructions as they moved John onto his right side. He moaned but his eyes remained closed, and as Derek took one of his hands for IV access, she took hold of the other, content for the moment just to watch him breathe.

. . . . .

"Easy, easy. Lay him on his back, for now."

Cameron placed John on the work bench carefully, and exactly according to Derek's instructions, then stepped aside to allow Sarah to smooth his limbs out. It was obvious watching Derek select equipment from the first aid kit that he knew what he was doing, while Sarah certainly wasn't going anywhere, which made Cameron surplus to requirements. Casting a brief, troubled glance at Sarah, who nodded towards the perimeter, Cameron selected an assault rifle from the weapons stacked on the floor and headed out into the night. She wasn't sure what emotion she had felt on being given permission to leave, but she suspected it was probably relief.

. . . . .

Derek tapped his fingers on the right side of John's chest and frowned at the dull sound that resonated. When he rested his hand against it, the rise and fall of John's breathing on that side was barely detectable.

"Shit." He swore under his breath, but Sarah looked up sharply, and he immediately regretted having spoken out loud. The look on her face strongly suggested that he not sugar-coat any of the details. "There's blood in here as well, Sarah. That's why he still looks like crap and he still can't breathe properly."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"We need to get the tube in, get everything drained out and hope the bleed seals itself off, or we'll have to start thinking about hospitals."

There was no hesitation this time. "Get the tube in then." She reached out to lay her hand on John's forehead as he muttered and shifted restlessly.

"You can leave me to do it…" Derek trailed off; she was already shaking her head.

"No. I'm fine. I can help."

. . . . .

The morphine Derek gave John through the IV was enough to sedate him lightly, but – with his breathing already precarious – it wasn't enough to stop him from reacting as the scalpel bit in across the top of his rib. He was too weak to make anything but a token attempt at moving away from the blade, but his eyes flew open and he looked desperately towards Sarah for help, before realizing that it was her hands that were holding him in place.

"Mom?" He sounded utterly confused, unable to understand why she would be complicit in this.

She shook her head, tears running unchecked down her cheeks as her grip remained firm. "Just stay still for me, John."

"Sarah."

"I know." She swallowed hard at Derek's warning, but tightened her hold, feeling the jolt as he punctured the lining of the lung with a pair of forceps and pushed the tip of his finger through to clear a passage for the chest tube. John was sobbing freely now, pleading hoarsely with her, and straining against the mass of fluid and air that was suffocating him. She heard Derek murmur in satisfaction as John suddenly managed a more complete breath, and she looked across to see blood coursing down the tube into the drainage bottle. Derek tied off his second suture and watched the bottle fill, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as the flow began to lessen, then slowed to a trickle. Sensing that something had changed, John took a cautious deep breath, his chest moving normally to accommodate the effort, and as he pulled in a second breath his lips gradually began to lose their dusky blue tinge.

"Better?" Sarah asked him softly.

He nodded, relief stark in his eyes.

"You go to sleep now. I'll be right here." She felt him squeeze her hand in reply as Derek pushed a more substantial dose of morphine into his IV. Without speaking, they propped him up against a mess of dust sheets and discarded overalls.

Sarah sank down into the chair that Derek had pulled over.

"I'll be back in a minute."

She nodded but didn't look at him.

He lifted his arm to wipe the cold sweat from his face as he walked to the door. The machine was nowhere to be seen, but he headed away from the building, away from the range of her infra-red and into a dark corner, before sinking to his knees and vomiting quietly onto the concrete.

. . . . .

Sarah pressed her hand against the dressing on the back of John's shoulder, closing her eyes in relief when it came back dry. The exit wound had been difficult to suture and had continued to bleed despite their best efforts; two hours later and it seemed the pressure bandage had finally done its job. She snapped the seal from a fresh bag of saline and swapped it for the one just finishing.

"I came to change that."

She turned abruptly, not having heard Derek approach, and wondered how the hell she was going to protect her son when she was so strung out she could allow someone to sneak up on her unnoticed.

"I got it." It came out harshly but she didn't care. Derek wouldn't have had to struggle to save John's life if he had listened to her in the first place. She hung the bag up and set it running, then sat back down, suppressing a wince as something in her side pulled sharply.

"This looks better." Derek was checking the same dressing, trying not to be distracted by the flash of pain that had just crossed Sarah's face.

"I know. I think it's stopped bleeding."

"We'll need to move him soon. The cops are going to be all over the Dyson house. Three bodies, Sarah. Three people killed just to draw us there."

When they had finally gotten John settled, Derek had told her about the two security guards he and Cameron had discovered, who had been executed and dumped at the back of the house. Cameron had searched the remaining rooms, but they had found no sign of Danny Dyson. Derek was convinced that Danny had never been the intended target, that Kaliba had never switched their intentions away from Sarah; all they had done was alter their tactics.

"Do you think they know who we are?" She shifted uncomfortably, too tired to work out the myriad possible ramifications beyond the obvious one, the fact that they had almost killed her son regardless of whether or not they had identified him.

He hesitated, reluctant to pile more negative theories on the ones he had already put forward; he didn't want to push Sarah any further than she was pushing herself. "I don't know. They might. They knew enough to link you with the Dysons. They went to a lot of effort to set us up, and they sent metal this time."

"Yeah." She didn't sound angry, she sounded exhausted. "Fuck."

"Do you have somewhere we can go?"

Knowing he meant another safehouse, she shook her head. If Kaliba really had gone to such lengths to flush them out into the open, their whereabouts had obviously been unknown to the organization, which left her the option of returning to the desert. But the safehouse there was now hours away, and she didn't want to risk moving John so far.

"I don't…" She trailed off as a long-forgotten possibility occurred to her, and closed her eyes, trying to calculate distance and travel-time. When she spoke again, her voice was still uncertain. "There is a place. It would only take about three hours to get there."

"Charley." Derek didn't phrase it as a question – it seemed the most logical choice out of their increasingly limited options – but Sarah's answer was immediate and unequivocal.

"No."

Charley had been her first thought, right before she thought about Michelle dying in his arms, and about the expression on his face when she had unlocked the front door of a lighthouse and he had realized that his life, as he had known it, was over. She knew that he would help them, she was certain that he would move heaven and earth to help John, but she also knew that – because of her – he was currently living in anonymous isolation, surrounded by a beach lined with Semtex.

"No." The repetition strengthened her resolve; she wouldn't drag Charley back into this maelstrom. "My mother. She owned a cabin. The first machine they sent killed her there." Despite keeping the details spare, she felt the familiar surge of guilt, and gripped John's hand tightly. "I couldn't go back there, not straight away, but I knew that its location would've been erased when I destroyed that machine, so I never sold it. It's the closest place I have, and we're staying close." She met Derek's eyes then, daring him to contradict her. "We're not running from these fuckers. Not after this."

He made no attempt to argue with her, merely gesturing to let her know that John was stirring. "We should look to move in the next couple of hours."

Sarah nodded, and Derek watched her stand and straighten herself carefully, holding a cup of water to John's lips while she murmured soft words to him that weren't meant for Derek to hear. He looked away, drawing morphine into a syringe and injecting it slowly into the IV until John's face lost the lines of pain that were creasing it and he settled back to sleep.

Setting the cup down, Sarah looked around the workshop they had appropriated as their field hospital. "Does this place have a bathroom?"

Derek narrowed his eyes; every time she moved she caught her breath, and she was unconsciously favoring her left side. He gestured towards the far corner of the unit. "There's one back there." As she brushed past him, he caught her arm. "Sarah, are you hurt?"

Pulling free from his hold, she looked down at her hands, the palms stained with red, blood dried beneath her fingernails like a macabre fashion statement. "It's not my blood," she said dully, her stomach churning as the sweet, metallic smell suddenly hit her. "I'm fine. I just need to get cleaned up." She walked unsteadily towards the corner Derek had indicated.

He waited until the door to the bathroom had clicked shut. "Shit." Out of options, he took out his cellphone, hesitated only briefly, and then hit the number listed as Metal.

. . . . .

Sitting on the closed toilet lid , Sarah drew in a deep breath and then began peeling her tank top up and away from the wound on her side, muffling a groan as the dried blood on the material stuck to her abraded skin.

"Dammit."

Blood that had been trickling from the injury was now flowing freely. She looked around for something clean to try and staunch it, before giving up and stripping off her tank top to use that. Curling her hand into a fist, she pressed down hard, all too aware that the longer she was gone, the more likely Derek was to come looking for her. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and she swore quietly before realizing that Derek would almost certainly have attempted just to walk straight in.

"Sarah?"

Cameron, who would probably wait for a few seconds more and then burst the door from its hinges.

With a sigh, Sarah resigned herself to the inevitable. "It's not locked."

Obviously pre-warned, Cameron had brought the first aid kit, and set it down on the floor, taking out a pad of gauze and looking to Sarah for permission before she did anything else.

"Derek sent you." If she hadn't been able to feel her own blood running down into her pants, Sarah might have been amused by that concept.

"Yes." Pulling Sarah's hands away, Cameron began to use the gauze to soak up the blood obscuring the wound. "You're no good to John if you collapse."

"He said that?" It came out in a gasp. Having pinpointed the source of the bleeding, Cameron was attempting to stem it by applying direct pressure, necessity forcing her to ignore Sarah's discomfort.

"No. He didn't say that."

Sarah leaned back against the toilet and closed her eyes. "I didn't even realize." She gestured towards her side. "Not until the last half hour." It wasn't an excuse, just the truth.

"Adrenaline."

"Yeah, I guess."

Cameron lifted the gauze, gave a quiet murmur of satisfaction, and ran water into the sink, waiting until the first rusty splutterings turned clear. "John was badly injured. Your natural reaction to that allowed you to overlook your own wound in order to protect him."

Sarah bit her lip and nodded, no reply forthcoming. The machine's hands were efficient but gentle, warm water sluicing the blood and dirt away. The bullet had torn shallowly through her side before grazing a path across her abdomen. She had a vague recollection of a shouted warning and a sudden impact stopping her in her tracks, but there was nothing more distinct than that, which lent a lot of credibility to Cameron's explanation.

"You'll need stitches to close this." Cameron indicated the deeper through-and-through, and picked up the needle and thread. "The rest is just going to sting like a motherfucker."

Eyes wide, Sarah let out a startled laugh. "Has John been teaching you to curse?"

Cameron hesitated, the needle poised inches away from Sarah's skin. "No. Derek said it earlier at the Dyson house, when he got shot." She pushed the needle in, beginning to pull the tattered edges of the wound closed, completely oblivious to Sarah's stunned expression.

"Derek got shot?"

"Yes." Another tiny stab of the needle, another neat stitch. "Twice, center mass in the chest. He stepped in front of the Triple 8 as it rounded on you and John." A jerk as she tied a knot off. "If he hadn't been wearing body armor, he would have been killed." She wiped a trickle of blood away, her face contemplative before she added, somewhat unnecessarily, "Instantly."

"Jesus, Cameron." Sarah shuddered, unable to stop herself. She knew that Derek rarely wore body armor, disliking the hindrance of its weight.

"Not his day to die." Cameron paused, pleased with her first foray into philosophy, then pulled another stitch taut.

"No." Sarah shook her head, torn between despair at the machine's nonchalance and disbelief at their own twisted and tormented luck. "Not his day to die."

. . . . .

Left alone again in the filthy washroom, Sarah soaked her discarded tank top and used it to clean the streaks of blood from her chest. She hadn't lied to Derek; most of the blood was John's, and her hands shook as she watched it swirl down the sink.

"Too fucking close," she whispered, no-one there to hear.

Too close for all of them, and John still wasn't stable enough to be considered out of danger.

With a quiet knock, Cameron entered and handed her a clean shirt from the supplies they had brought with them. Sarah nodded gratefully then pulled it on. The fresh stitches tugged and burned, but she ignored the pain, accepting it as a fair trade-off for being rid of the clothing stained with her son's blood.

Cameron had gone again, leaving a packet of Tylenol and a bottle of water behind as a none-too-subtle hint. Swallowing two tablets with a mouthful of water, Sarah pulled her shirt straight and headed back into the workshop.

. . . . .

"Any change?"

Derek had been sitting by John's side, but was already rising and offering up his chair as Sarah walked towards him.

"No change. No fresh bleeding. He seems comfortable enough."

"Has he been awake?"

"No." He looked at her, his face pale and drawn. "No, I'd have come and found you, Sarah."

She nodded, and he was about to move past her when she laid a hand on his chest. "Cameron told me."

"Told you what?" He sounded genuinely bemused.

"That you got shot."

"Fucking metal." He pushed her hand down, color rising in his face as he turned away from her.

"Reese." Her voice was sharp, stopping him dead, and she held her hands up as if to apologize for using the family name. When she continued, her tone was softer; they were in too much trouble to be fighting amongst themselves. "Derek, what happened here…" She looked at John, who had always been quicker to forgive and urge reconciliation than she had ever been. "What happened here, happened. It's no-one's fault."

"It's my fault John was involved."

"Maybe," she conceded. "But if we had split up, there's a pretty good chance we'd be dead. It probably wasn't expecting four of us, and I'm sure it wasn't expecting metal." She looked up at him. "It was waiting for me," she said, her voice hollow. "If you're looking for someone to blame, I started this when I put my fingers against three smudges of blood."

He shook his head, not convinced, still plagued by the consequences of his decisions, but didn't resist when she took his hand and laid his fingers flat.

"Here." She dropped two Tylenol onto his palm. "Ribs broken?"

"No. Just bruised."

"Stinging like a motherfucker?"

He raised an eyebrow with the hint of a smile. "Anything the metal didn't tell you?"

"You know Cameron. She was quite comprehensive."

"I'll bet." Swallowing the pills dry, he stacked up a couple of their supply boxes and lifted them with a slight grimace. "He's due a dose of morphine in forty minutes. That'd probably be a good time to move him."

"Okay." She took her seat, touching John's hand lightly. "Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you had the vest on…"

. . . . .

Special Agent Auldridge stood in the middle of what had once been a typical family kitchen, and tried to visualize the sequence of events from the pattern of destruction surrounding him. Crime Scene Investigators were digging out bullets and shaking their heads over structural damage that they were at a loss to explain, while a photographer was busy taking detailed shots of blood splatter and of a larger stain where a body had lain and then been lifted.

The first patrol unit to respond to a neighbor's frantic report of shots being fired had found the bodies of friends of theirs: off-duty policemen with a sideline in private security. Officers specializing in bereavement counseling were informing their families and making the requisite assurances that no stone would be left unturned during the investigation.

Pushing open the door of the master bedroom, Auldridge nodded at the County Coroner's official and watched as Tarissa Dyson was sealed up into a body bag.

"Damn."

He patted his top pocket where his cigarettes should have been and swore with more vehemence when he remembered that he'd given up three months ago, right around the time he had first spoken to Tarissa.

The bedroom door opened again and a forty-something detective with a paunch and a regrettable moustache grinned happily at him.

"I hope that grin means you found something, Tommy, otherwise," he nodded towards the body bag, "It's a little inappropriate."

The detective's grin broadened. "New security system was installed six weeks ago; records everyone coming through the front door. We found something on last night's footage that you're gonna want to see."

Auldridge made a lead the way gesture, opened a packet of nicotine gum and followed the detective out of the bedroom.

. . . . .

Cameron pulled the truck into an unlit parking space at the rear of the small convenience store and switched the ignition off.

"Why are we stopping?" In the backseat, Sarah looked up, confused. She had been so focused on monitoring John's condition that she hadn't even realized they had left the freeway.

"We need spare medical supplies, food. You both need to eat something. You –" this directed at Sarah, "– Were bleeding for several hours and need to replace the fluid you lost." The inference was clear: you are not machines, you cannot keep going indefinitely.

Sarah put a hand to her aching head, loath to dwell on the issue of her own injury. "Okay, fine. Make it quick."

"Of course."

The truck's interior light came on when Cameron opened the driver's door, and Sarah glanced down to where John's head rested in her lap. He had slept for the duration of the journey, heavily sedated by a combination of shock and morphine, his only purposeful movement having been to struggle weakly when Derek and Cameron carried him to the truck. As the light dimmed again, Sarah rested a hand on his forehead, smoothing away the damp strands of hair and frowning when she felt the heat there.

"I think he's running a fever." She tried not to sound scared, but the fear was there in the way her words caught in her throat.

Derek stopped peering into the dark of the parking lot and spun around to face her. Reaching his hand out, he laid it on John's forehead, and then nodded in agreement. "He feels slightly warm. It might just be a stress reaction." Derek knew that was a long shot at best, but preferred not to tip Sarah over the edge that she had been teetering along for the past few hours. "Next time he wakes up, we can get some Tylenol into him. That'll help. And as soon as we find somewhere to stop, I'll check his dressings. Okay?"

She nodded, and even in the darkness he saw the relief in her eyes.

"He'll be alright, Sarah." He knew that he shouldn't make her any promises. They had a critically injured seventeen-year-old lying in the back of a truck with his chest drain sitting in the foot-well, and an IV hanging off a seat belt. There was nothing right about any of this, but when he touched her hand, she curled her fingers around his for a fleeting moment, and he repeated his promise regardless.

"He'll be alright."

. . . . .

Sitting in the cluttered cubicle laughingly referred to by his supervisor as his office, Auldridge leaned back in his chair, a troubled expression creasing his brow. He clicked his mouse twice and reopened the digitized file, enlarging the photograph of a young woman with a feral look in her eyes, who seemed poised as if she was about to launch herself at the unfortunate person behind the camera. On the television to his right, the same woman – not looking anywhere near as old as she should have – nodded to a male and entered the Dyson house. Both had guns drawn, both moved as if they were expecting, or at least prepared for, an ambush. His supervisor had dismissed the similarities between the two women's appearances as a coincidence, pointing out with a sly grin that, even if she had survived a massive explosion in a bank vault eight years ago, it was too much to believe that she had also discovered the secret to eternal youth. The grin had vanished as soon as the DNA results had come back. One blood sample was a perfect match for Sarah Connor: Pescadero escapee and domestic terrorist listed high on the FBI's Most Wanted. The second was a close enough match to the first to indicate that one of Connor's immediate family had also been present at the crime scene, and had lost a large amount of blood there. To the FBI's knowledge, Connor had only one close, surviving relative: her son, John.

Auldridge looked down again at the press release he had been issued with. Sarah Connor was being implicated in the deaths of Tarissa Dyson and the two off-duty officers who had died alongside her. It didn't matter that the Coroner had established time of death as being at least twenty hours before Connor had entered the property. There were no other leads to go on, and Connor was too big a potential catch to allow such trivialities as contradictory forensic evidence to prevent the Bureau from naming her as their number one suspect. Her photograph and description had been released to all the major news agencies, along with the offer of a one hundred and fifty-thousand dollar reward for information leading directly to her arrest. With a sigh, Auldridge checked his watch, clicked CNN onto his laptop and waited for the cranks to start calling.

. . . . .

The Tylenol had stayed down for about ten minutes before John had leaned over and vomited the medication onto the floor of the truck, along with the small amount of water Sarah had managed to get him to drink. Beneath her hand, his forehead burned, and she looked to Derek, panic vivid on her face.

"We need to stop." Derek watched John shivering uncontrollably and his guts twisted; he knew things were getting beyond the point where his limited skills, and their limited medications, would be able to make much of a difference. "Get us to a motel or something. The shittier the better. Somewhere no-one will ask questions."

Cameron nodded, one eye on the road, the other studying the truck's GPS.

Derek soaked a bandage in water before handing it to Sarah. "Here."

Taking the cloth, she cleaned John's face and then rested it on his forehead. "It's not going to be enough, is it?" she said quietly.

He knew she wasn't talking about the cold compress, but about everything that they had at their disposal, and he shook his head once, beyond the point now of baseless reassurance.

"No. No, it isn't."


	3. Chapter 3

The Rest Inn had one buzzing, flickering light in its parking lot, a tariff for renting by the hour, and a manager who barely acknowledged Derek as he counted his cash and then passed him a grimy room key. Drapes were firmly drawn in the other three occupied rooms, a couple was arguing loudly in Spanish, and no-one noticed as a young man was carried into Room Eleven by a young girl who shouldn't have been able to lift his weight.

Sarah stripped the stained bedspread away to reveal sheets that were only slightly cleaner. Cameron laid John down on them before returning to the truck for their bags.

"Jesus. What a shithole." Derek was helping Sarah to prop John up against the pillows.

She gave him a small smile. "You used to live in tunnels under City Hall, Derek."

"Yeah." He leaned John forward while she quickly cut away what remained of his shirt. "But we had our pride. Hell, Kyle even found a piece of carpet for the ten-square-feet of tunnel that we called home."

Sarah's smile faded and her face paled as Derek peeled the dressing away from the front of John's chest. "Oh God."

The wound was badly inflamed, yellow liquid already gathering and seeping away from its center. John moaned low in his throat when Derek laid a tentative hand on the edge of it.

"We'll need to open it and clean it out, then leave it open and hope the infection drains."

Sarah nodded. "Like you did with my leg."

"Yeah, exactly like that."

"He'll need antibiotics, then."

"Yes. The stronger the better, and intravenous, if he's vomiting."

"We don't have any." Cameron had acquired their last batch by breaking into a hospital, but if the T-888 was still on their trail, Cameron wouldn't be leaving John's side. Trying to figure out exactly where along their intended route they had had to make their detour, Sarah picked up a tattered take-out menu that had been left rather optimistically on the bedside table and studied the address on it. Placing it down again, she ran her hand over her face, watching her son as he shifted restlessly, his breathing rapid and harsh.

"It's a long shot, and he's an asshole, but there might be someone I can call…"

. . . . .

"Two hours. I'll be in touch."

Tal Emerson clicked his cellphone shut and scratched absently at the stubble on his chin. Sarah's voice had been the same; underneath the stress and desperation that she had tried so hard to mask, its timbre and soft accent were the same as they had been ten years ago. Ten years ago she had requested a variation on the same theme: blood that time as well, and someone who could patch up a bullet wound and a stab wound without asking any questions. He had been obliging – there was big money to be made in this kind of field – but things change, and he suddenly found himself facing something of a moral dilemma. Obtaining the blood and the medications she had asked for was not going to be a problem, and it certainly posed no problem for his morals. The fifteen thousand dollars he had set as a price tag was more the issue. That price was exactly a tenth of what he could apparently earn with one simple phone call to the number currently scrolling across the bottom of the 24-hour news channel that he had stopped at, en route to the channel playing 24-hour poker.

Emerson's moral dilemma lasted for approximately thirty seconds. Fingers trembling with excitement, he dialed the number as it appeared on the screen, wondering at the fortuitous timing, and making a mental note to buy himself a couple of lottery tickets because his mom had always told him that good luck came in multiples of three. His call was placed in a queue but answered soon afterwards, and he stuttered slightly when a girl with a pretty accent asked him for his details. He gave them, aware that they would flag him up as having a criminal record, but he had served his time for his past offenses, and, if anything, his history would only give his call more credibility. The pretty accent did not interrupt as he gave his information, and when he had finished she thanked him for his vigilance and told him that someone would be in touch.

Not at all certain of his reward, Emerson hung up with a pang of disappointment. Consoling himself with a cigarette, he took a long drag and continued to trawl through the channels, heading inevitably towards the poker. He had just stubbed his cigarette out when his cell phone rang, and he opened it to find a number that he didn't recognize. The voice on the other end was male, bordering on friendly, and belonged, unmistakably, to someone in law enforcement.

"Mr. Emerson, my name is Agent Auldridge. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I understand you've spoken to Sarah Connor…"

. . . . .

The worst of it was done. Sarah sat by John's side, periodically wiping a cloth over and around the oozing wound on his chest.

Derek emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, and gestured at the cup of coffee that Sarah had ignored and left sitting on the bedside table. "If you're not going to sleep, you should drink that."

She looked up at him, dark shadows beneath her eyes, and shook her head with a grimace. "Let's just say that Cameron's coffee-making skills are about on a par with my cooking skills."

He widened his eyes with a grin. "Fuck. That bad, huh?"

"Possibly slightly worse." She smiled, but when she stood to clean a trickle of blood from John's chest she only made it halfway up before she suddenly sat down again. "Shit." What little color there had been in her face drained from it, and she closed her eyes.

"Head between your knees, Connor."

She mumbled a reply that sounded suspiciously like "Fuck off", but obeyed him anyway, bending forward to rest her head on her folded arms. He left her there, filling the small kettle, and then rummaging in the bags Cameron had brought in from the convenience store. When he went back to her, she was sitting upright in the chair, still looking pale but less so than she had been just moments before.

"I got up too fast."

"Yeah." He handed her a bottle of orange juice, a banana, and a granola bar. "Are you bleeding?"

"No," she said sharply, her tone intended to put an immediate end to the topic.

He wasn't swayed, however, and when he repeated his question she gave a small sigh of defeat and lifted her shirt. The three dressings Cameron had applied were all clean and dry. Sarah waited until Derek nodded, and then dropped her shirt back down to cover them.

"I just got up too fast."

"I know you did." He didn't care if she heard the relief in his voice. Trying to keep one Connor alive was proving difficult enough; he couldn't afford to add more complications to the mix. "Drink the juice and I'll make you a decent cup of coffee. Deal?"

Removing the cap, she took a couple of mouthfuls from the bottle and tried not to screw her face up as the acid hit her empty stomach. "Deal."

. . . . .

"Here." Derek handed Sarah her coffee and pulled up a chair at her side.

"Thanks." Her other hand rested on John's arm. "He feels warmer."

"We're doing everything we can, Sarah." They had stripped him down, bathed him, opened the windows, and given him more Tylenol, which he had vomited back up. Derek checked his watch. "Another hour, then hopefully, if your contact's as good as he claimed, we can get the antibiotics and something to bring his fever down."

She nodded, taking a sip of the coffee, her eyes never leaving John's face. "He almost died before he was even born."

"What? You mean the machine?" Derek was running a cool cloth across John's face and chest, giving Sarah a break, and he sensed rather than saw the shake of her head.

"No. Well, yes, but after that as well. He was premature. I never told you?" She had revealed so many of her secrets to him lately that it was getting hard to keep track of the ones she still held.

"No, you didn't tell me that." He sat back down and blew on his own coffee before taking a sip.

"I made it to thirty-four weeks. I was in Nicaragua at the time, training with a group of mercenaries." She shrugged mildly when Derek raised an eyebrow. "It probably wasn't what an prenatal class would have recommended, but then I never actually made it to any classes. The group had a base camp in the jungle and we were hiking back after an exercise when the pain started."

"Contractions?"

She was already shaking her head. "No, continuous pain, terrible, like I was being ripped apart, and I was bleeding."

"Nowhere near a hospital, were you?" He had a nasty feeling that he knew where this story was heading.

"No. Luckily, Alvaro, the camp medic, was with us. He didn't have a clue what was causing it, but he'd seen similar symptoms, and in pretty much all of the cases the baby had died. He gave me a choice." She took a sip from her cup, her mouth suddenly dry. "A Cesarean there and then, or…" Her lips curled with a sardonic smile. "Well, actually, I guess he didn't give me a choice."

"Jesus, Sarah."

"I think he'd done a couple before, in the camp, but we weren't in the camp."

"No anesthetic." Derek put his cup down, feeling slightly sick.

"No. Someone had a bottle of dark rum. I remember puking a lot of it back up, and there were hands holding me down, and Alvaro saying he was sorry over and over again as he cut. I stayed conscious until I heard John cry, then…" A faint shake of her head. "They got us back to the camp somehow. I don't really remember the next few days, or weeks, I guess. I'd lost a lot of blood and I got an infection." She rolled her eyes; for her, some things never changed. "Ofelia, one of the women, when I didn't have the strength, she would hold John so that I could nurse him. She kept telling me how important it was, even if I was sick, so that we could bond." She smiled a little at that and looked up at Derek, her eyes wet with tears. "And he was fine. Small at first, but beautiful, and he fought so hard." A quiet sob escaped her as the tears over-spilled to run down her cheeks. "I didn't realize then that that was just the start of it. That he'd have to fight every fucking day of his life."

Swiping a hand across her face, she allowed the anger to eat into the edges of her grief; breaking apart was an indulgence that she couldn't afford. She felt a hand rest briefly on her shoulder and sensed Derek moving away from her. Grateful for his tact, she used her shirt sleeve to dry her eyes properly, then finished her coffee and set her cup back down.

Minutes later, Derek returned with more coffee and a fresh bag of saline. Neither of them spoke as he reset the IV before sitting down beside her again. With nothing left to say and nothing more they could do, they sat in silence and waited for the phone to ring.

. . . . .

"No. Absolutely fucking not." Derek paced across the small room, turning to face Sarah as she stood by the bed, her cellphone still clutched in her hand.

"I'm not arguing, Derek. He didn't give us a choice. I go on my own or the deal's off. I already agreed to it."

"You can call him back."

"No." She was already pulling her jacket on. "And we're wasting time."

"He could drive." Cameron was standing by the window, scanning the parking lot through a small gap in the drapes. "There is nothing more to be done for John until we obtain the medications, and you shouldn't go entirely on your own."

As a compromise, it was fairly obvious. Derek looked to Sarah for her answer, grabbing his own jacket when she nodded.

"Okay, but I go and meet him alone, as arranged. I can't afford to fuck this up. Emerson's my only contact for this kind of thing, and he always was as nervous as hell."

"Fine." Derek checked the clip in his gun and picked up the keys for the truck. "You ready?"

Sarah pressed a quick kiss to John's forehead, but when she looked up at Derek her face betrayed no emotion.

"Let's go."

. . . . .

"Okay, then." Auldridge nodded in satisfaction at Emerson, who was still sitting, pale and twitchy, in the small booth.

"I did everything you said, right?" Emerson bit the skin at the side of his thumb, pulling it hard enough to draw blood. "And she's coming, right?"

"Right." Auldridge was barely listening as he scribbled his signature across requisition forms for the necessary personnel, vehicles, permits, and firearms.

"So, when do I get my reward?"

Passing the forms to a junior agent waiting by his shoulder, Auldridge put his pen down and smiled. "As soon as we have Sarah Connor in custody, Mr. Emerson, I promise you, you can have your reward."

With his thumb firmly wedged into the corner of his mouth, Emerson sat up a little straighter and grinned.

. . . . .

The bus smelled of wet clothing and something faintly sour. Sarah ignored the unshaven man muttering to himself across the aisle, and concentrated on being unobtrusive. She sat still, not tensing whenever someone stood up without warning, not checking over her shoulder to find Derek trailing three cars behind in the truck. Taking the bus for the last stage of the journey had been her idea, to ensure that no-one could connect her to Derek. No-one would see her getting out of the truck, and, if Emerson was somehow tracking her or watching her, he would be confident that she had travelled alone.

The route was unfamiliar to her, as was the routine that her few fellow passengers had found so simple. They hadn't fumbled to find the right money or struggled to describe which stop they were heading towards. They sat listening to iPods or moving their fingers furiously across cellphone keypads, not needing to watch the landmarks as they passed or to study the names of the stops as they flashed up above the driver in digital orange.

Standing as soon as her stop was announced, Sarah caught an overstuffed bag that was knocked towards her by its owner, who was struggling to get up in time. The young girl met her eyes and thanked her profusely. Hours later, when the police made enquiries, she would be the only passenger on the bus who had even noticed that Sarah was there.

. . . . .

At five in the morning, the hospital corridors were all but deserted, and there was no-one there to question why a man in a white laboratory coat efficiently disabled a fire alarm and allowed a woman to circumnavigate security by entering the hospital through a side door.

"Emerson." Sarah nodded at the man, but neither offered their hand. They had never been friends, just passing acquaintances.

"Been a long time. You're looking good, Connor." Emerson's voice held more than a note of surprise; she looked tired, but the years had certainly been kind to her.

"Yeah, thanks." He had already started walking, and she strode alongside him, her eyes flicking into every doorway, then casting down to the floor when they passed closed-circuit cameras. "Did you get them?"

"Sure, sure. No problems. They're in the lab, where we can make the…" He hesitated, searching for a word to make the whole business respectable, "…Transaction in privacy." He stopped at a door marked Hematology and tried to will himself not to shake as he placed his key in the lock.

"You alright, Emerson?"

"Yeah, yeah." The door swung open at the third attempt. He coughed dryly, flailing for the excuse he had been preparing in case his nerves got the better of him. "Not done this for a while, that's all. I've been running straight for two years."

"Sorry," she said, sounding genuinely remorseful. "You know I wouldn't ask if I had any other way."

"Yeah, I know. Besides, they pay me fucking peanuts here." He was kneeling by a fridge, reaching into the back to bring out a bag. "Four units, AB negative. Gentamicin, IV. Acetaminophen, IV. Metaclopramide, IV."

Sarah handed over her own small bag. "Fifteen thousand."

He peered in at the money but made no attempt to check it.

She frowned. "Sure you don't want to count that?" He had always been cautious to the point of paranoia about payment, and she felt the hairs at the nape of her neck begin to prickle.

He seemed to recognize his error and corrected himself with a jolt. "Yeah, yeah. Hold on, let me count it."

Sarah was already moving. Ignoring Emerson as he swore and called her back, she began to retrace the route to the entrance they had used. The buzz of her cellphone sounded, harsh and insistent. With cold sweat sticking her shirt to her back, she pulled it out of her pocket.

. . . . .

They had arrived without warning and en masse. No sirens, just the flashing of red and blue as they deployed themselves around the main entrance. From his vantage point, crouched low in the front seat of the Dodge, Derek saw a man in a suit holding a bullhorn and watching patiently as uniformed officers began to hurry early morning shift workers away from the hospital.

"Oh, fucking hell." Trapped in the truck, Derek stared, horrified, as SWAT teams took up position, fanning out to surround the building. Feeling numb and utterly useless, he took out his cellphone and hit Sarah's number.

. . . . .

"Sarah." It was all there in Derek's voice, in that one word.

Sarah slowed her pace, clutching the bag of drugs so tightly that her fingers ached. "He gave me up, didn't he?"

"Yes. Fuck. Yes."

"How many?" She felt strangely calm, no thoughts of trying to run, as she studied the signage at a corridor junction.

"Too many. Front and back. Shit."

"You need to go." She set off walking again, faster now, following the signs for the main entrance.

"No. I could come around the side, see if they left a gap."

Pushing open the door of a restroom, she ducked inside, heaving out a breath when she realized it was empty. Derek was still talking, trying to work out a plan from a distance, as Sarah dug her hands into the trash and buried her bag at the bottom. Crouching with her back against the wall, she cut him off in the middle of a sentence.

"Derek, listen to me."

"Sarah…"

"No! Shut the fuck up, and listen to me." She ran a hand over her face; it came back damp with sweat. "You need to get out of here and go back to John."

"They're going to be watching the parking lots."

"Yeah, well, I can probably get their attention."

He must have heard something in her tone to give him an idea of what she was intending. "Don't do anything fucking stupid, Connor. They've got marksmen everywhere."

"I'll try not to give them much to aim at."

He let out a sharp laugh of disbelief, and she heard a bang as he hit his fist against something hard. Then he sighed heavily, his voice full of resignation. "Main entrance?"

"Main entrance." Leaving the restroom, she passed a shuttered coffee shop and a news stand that had been deserted with only half of the day's newspapers arranged. "Go. They're not looking for you. They don't even know you're here. Go back to John." She lowered her voice, no longer able to keep the emotion out of it. "Please."

"Fuck." Another muffled thud, his hand against the steering wheel. "Fuck."

She nodded at him even though he couldn't see her, her throat tight with relief. "The bag's in the trash in the men's room, at the entrance." Dark shadows were moving beyond the main doors of the hospital, red and blue lights cutting across them intermittently.

"I'll get it."

"Give it a couple of hours."

"I will. I'll get it. Don't worry about John."

She made a small, anguished sound at his familiar promise, but, mercifully, he had already ended the call. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the door and pulled it open, wincing as artificial light blinded her and the screech of a misfiring bullhorn cut through the air.

"Sarah Connor. Put your hands behind your head. Kneel on the ground!"

She raised her hands slowly, trying to predict the tactics of the forces massed in front of her. Two uniformed officers began to tuck their guns away and approach cautiously. She took one brief glance towards the parking lot, where a black truck with its lights extinguished was beginning to move. Refusing to give herself an opportunity to change her mind, she ran at the officer closest to her. Her shoulder caught him hard, and he crumpled to the floor with a yelp of surprise. Without losing her momentum, she threw a wild right hook at the second officer. Ignoring the burst of pain in her hand as he fell away from her, she sprinted forward – too much confusion and too many bystanders to allow the snipers a clear shot. Noise was building around her, orders and warnings; she shut it all out, forging forwards towards the frontline, two more officers offering themselves as sacrificial lambs, tackling her to the floor and completely underestimating their target. With her hands around the throat of the first, Sarah kicked out to force the older of the pair back against a patrol car, his head hitting the wing mirror and knocking him senseless.

Watching the ranks close in on her, she realized that that would have to be enough. The first baton struck her bluntly across the middle of her back. It drove the breath from her and she struggled to keep her position, her hands still loosely gripped around the officer's throat, dimly aware that she was still a threat for as long as she resisted. The blows continued relentlessly, pounding against her shoulders, her back, her arms. When she felt the stitches in her side split, she finally sagged, falling to the concrete and no longer fighting, as her arms were dragged behind her and handcuffs were cinched tightly around her wrists. Hauled suddenly upright, she panted against a surge of dizziness, her legs barely supporting her as she was frog-marched to a patrol car and pushed roughly into the back seat. The engine started immediately, the driver pausing only for an armed escort to pull out in front.

Sarah didn't acknowledge the Miranda that the arresting officer was reciting, turning instead to look beyond the flashing strobe lights and into the parking lot, where there was nothing to be seen but a row of vacant spaces.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is it still the machines, Sarah?"

"Where have you been hiding for the past eight years?"

"Why Tarissa, Sarah? Why continue to target the Dysons?"

The voices and shouts surrounded her, cat calls, taunts, inane questions and pleas for clarity. Numb with exhaustion, Sarah welcomed the overly-harsh grip on her arm, steering her through the mêlée, breaking a path and keeping the crowd at bay. When the steel of the first security door slammed shut, the sudden silence was jarring.

"In here."

The officer had slate-gray eyes and a cruel twist to his lips, and these were the first words he had spoken to her since pulling her from the back seat of the car. She staggered as he propelled her into a small room marked Processing.

"She's all yours."

The female prison guard waited until the officer had released the cuffs from Sarah's wrists before she handed her an orange jumpsuit. When the officer still didn't leave, the woman raised an eyebrow, her arms folded.

"Why don't you go and get a coffee, Johnson? You don't get to be here for this."

The grin left the officer's face and his expression darkened. "Bitch already killed two of ours, and she took out another four today, before we got her pinned down. Just want to be sure you're safe, that's all."

The woman looked at Sarah, who seemed to be standing upright only through sheer force of will. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

His hands came up then, his eyes all innocence. "Only doing my job. Talbert and me, we're right outside. The FBI want her in an hour. Play nice till then."

When the door finally shut, the woman muttered "Asshole," and shook her head, turning to Sarah. "You know the drill, I'm guessing."

Sarah nodded. "Yes, I know the drill."

Peering at her for a long moment, the woman narrowed her eyes. "I'm also guessing you're gonna be needing a doctor, huh?"

Too weary to put up any kind of pretense, Sarah laid a hand tentatively against her side, then looked down at the blood coating her palm, and nodded again. "Yes," she said slowly. "I guess I am."

. . . . .

Muttering an apology, Derek hooked his hands beneath the janitor's arms and dragged the unconscious man further into the supply closet. The shirt he had stripped from the man was too big, and the belt had been long enough to wrap twice around his waist, but no-one would notice that at a glance, and he was hoping fervently that hospital janitors would warrant no more than a glance. Pulling the denim-blue cap down low, he pushed the small cart out into the corridor, locking the closet door behind him. A janitor would know where he was going, so Derek had already picked up a hospital map from the main entrance and studied it carefully. He had done everything carefully; what he hadn't done was wait for the two hours that he had promised Sarah.

By the time the first baton had fallen, he had been on the edge of the parking lot, forcing himself to drive away when his baser instincts were screaming at him just to take a chance and drive straight into the police line instead. An hour later, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Satisfied with their prize, the police had retreated as quickly as they had arrived, which left Derek with a brief window of opportunity. Brief, because sooner rather than later some bright spark would stop patting himself on the back for long enough to realize that Sarah had stashed her drugs somewhere on the premises, and that an accomplice would subsequently be coming to retrieve them.

Shaking out a fresh liner for the trash can, Derek pulled the old one out, the unusual weight and shape sitting at the bottom of it indicating that he had found the right restroom. Placing the trash-bag on the cart, he walked unhurriedly back onto the main corridor, turning left to the service elevators and hitting the button for the basement. Manual staff always exited via a basement, and, as he had predicted, no one spared him a second glance as he picked up the bag of trash and walked straight out into the sunlight.

. . . . .

The doctor had introduced himself only as "Doc". He was well on his way to retirement and smelled faintly of bourbon and cigarettes, but his hands were steady as he frowned at the criss-cross pattern of welts on Sarah's back and shoulders and examined her for underlying fractures.

"Take a deep breath for me. Good. And another."

She did as she was asked, even though it was painful.

He nodded in satisfaction. "Your chest is clear; ribs are all okay. Now, what the hell happened here? Someone take a fucking meat grinder to you?"

Before Sarah could answer, there was a metallic rattling behind her. The doctor muttered under his breath, digging into his pockets and dropping two quarters into the tin that a nurse was holding out for him.

"Never miss a trick, do you, Deanne?"

"You keep this up, doc, and you're gonna run outta money for whiskey again."

He scowled at Deanne, who smiled beatifically and handed him a small tray. "Twenty-five cents for every cuss word," she said to Sarah, by way of explanation. "We're both trying to give up, but it's real fuckin' hard." The doctor laughed as Deanne reached into her own pocket. "Aww, shit." The tin clanked again.

Sarah stared at the two medics, slightly envious of their world in which sentient machines posed no threat to civilization and one of their major concerns was an over-reliance on the word fuck. "It wasn't a meat grinder," she muttered, watching the nurse drawing clear liquid into a syringe.

"No." The doctor probed the wound, withdrawing his hand when Sarah made a quiet noise of discomfort. "It was a small caliber through and through, and you were lucky. Now, sit back for me." He opened a packet and took out a suturing needle. "This is going to sting a little."

Sarah carefully leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She felt the sharp prick of a needle in several places around the wound, and then there was a pause before the doctor asked, "Can you feel this?"

Looking down in confusion, she realized that he had given her a local anesthetic. She shook her head in answer to his question, raising her arm to cover her eyes as tears filled them; she had forgotten that it didn't always have to hurt. She knew that she needed to keep her wits about her and that pain tended to keep her alert, but she was so tired, and the medics weren't interested in her crimes, or her missing years, or her son. According to the clock on the wall, there were twenty-five minutes left before her hour was up and the FBI would come looking for her. The pain would be back by then. Drawing reassurance from that, she closed her eyes again, and, for the first time in hours, allowed herself to rest.

. . . . .

The motel door opened before Derek could knock. He hurried past Cameron, closing the door, as she hesitated, with a puzzled expression on her face.

He went straight over to John, wrinkling his nose at the rank odor of vomit and infection. "We need to get these into him. Then we need to get to the cabin."

Without comment, Cameron began studying the dosages on the packets and drawing up the correct amounts, as Derek inserted a second IV line and connected the blood and antibiotics. She handed him another small IV bag and a syringe filled with the anti-emetic, and watched as he administered the medications.

It was only when he stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel, that she spoke. "What happened?"

He folded the towel neatly, setting it down on the bedside table. "She got arrested."

Cameron regarded him, her face blank as the possible ramifications passed through her neural processor in a rapid series of permutations and calculations. "The media were present?"

"Yes. I…" He paused, uncertain; he hadn't thought to look. "I'm sure they were."

"Then the Triple 8 will be aware of her arrest."

"Shit." Momentarily safe, with John finally receiving the correct treatment, Derek was beginning to see things as clearly as the machine. "Won't it consider John a priority?" His voice was almost hopeful; out of all the shitty scenarios, that would probably be the simplest for them to cope with, but Cameron was shaking her head.

"It is likely that John has also been identified, but the Triple 8 is aware that he is severely wounded, and it has no way of tracking him. Sarah has been a Kaliba target for months. The fact that she can be easily located will make her the simplest option."

"Jesus." Derek slumped into a chair, suddenly feeling sick and overwhelmed. "You think it'll target her at the jail?"

Cameron handed him a bottle of water, and nodded as he drank. "I would."

. . . . .

Agent Auldridge had an accent that Sarah couldn't quite place, and an apparent fondness for grandstanding. She didn't encourage him by showing any reaction as he listed her past crimes and those that she stood accused of committing more recently. Shifting her hands where they lay cuffed in her lap, she felt a pang of sorrow as he mentioned Tarissa Dyson, and when he told her that the two murdered security guards had been off-duty police officers, she realized why the handcuffs were so tight.

His opening speech concluded, he had finally stopped walking around the room and now sat in front of her, his hands still moving hyperactively on the empty table between them. "So, there's two ways I can bring your son into custody: with your help, or dead. Which do you think it should be?"

His question was so unexpected that it felt like a slap in the face, and Sarah fought to keep her voice neutral.

"My son?"

"Your son, John Connor."

"John is dead."

"Oh, I don't think so."

The metal carved into her wrists as she twisted her hands, and she barely heard his glib response. As blood seeped onto her fingers, she continued to speak as if he hadn't interrupted her. "He got shot at the Dysons'."

She stared down at her hands, crimson glistening over the steel links. As she had intended, the pain kept her focused, but in the end it was too easy for her to believe what she was saying, and she choked on the words: "He died."

A strange expression crossed Auldridge's face, the wind suddenly taken out of his sails. He had been so absolutely certain, walking into this interview; certain of his subject and of the tactics he would use to break her down. Now, watching her stare straight ahead, he saw an unfathomable grief in her eyes, and found himself wondering whether she wasn't already broken.

. . . . .

Unable to give a plausible reason for being at the Dysons', or an explanation as to why an unidentified and untraceable assailant would have attacked them there, Sarah barely even tried. When she challenged Auldridge about Tarissa's time of death and about the fact that someone had shot her son, a flicker of unease crossed his face, and she knew then that the odds were definitely not stacked in her favor. She didn't ask for a lawyer; if she was already condemned before a trial, then there really wasn't any point.

They had taken her back to her cell, bringing her a sandwich and a plastic cup of coffee, and leaving her to cope with the handcuffs while she ate. Disorientated, unable to gauge the time of day or how long she had been in the jail, she sat on the thin mattress of the cot and waited for them to come for her again.

. . . . .

"Mom?"

It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to make Derek sit bolt upright on the edge of the chair in which he had finally dozed off. He reached for John's hand where it lay limply on the sheet; the mere act of speaking seemed to have exhausted John, and he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You back with us?" Derek stood up, and smiled when he touched John's forehead; it was still warm but his temperature was nowhere near as high as it had been. "Here, slowly."

John sipped the water that Derek held for him, licking his parched lips and trying to make out shapes in the dim light. Cameron stood by the door in a familiar pose, the assault rifle that she favored held at the ready. IV bags hung at both sides of the bed, and two chairs were pulled up close. Derek had put the water down and was sitting beside him again. John furrowed his brow, unease creeping in below the morphine and the lingering fever.

"Where's my mom?"

. . . . .

It certainly hadn't been easy, but they had finally left the motel. Having attempted to get out of bed the instant he learned of Sarah's arrest, John had ended up writhing in pain, and the morphine it had taken to control it had left a sizable hole in their already dwindling supply.

Derek had made another promise, to John Connor this time, and it had been enough to quiet him and get him to the truck. He was sleeping again, more comfortable now that the fever had broken and Derek had been confident enough with his progress to travel in the front seat.

"You shouldn't have said that." Cameron kept her voice low, her eyes on the road.

"I shouldn't have said what?" Derek knew exactly what she was referring to, but bloody-mindedness made him force her to be more explicit.

"About his mother. You shouldn't have promised that we would attempt to free her."

"You want to tell John that, when he's awake?" He ground the question out through gritted teeth, galled by her absolute lack of emotion.

"It is tactically unwise." She looked over at him. "And Sarah will kick your ass from here to next week."

Derek blinked. He knew exactly where she had heard the phrase, and she had hit the nail on the head so completely that she might as well have imitated Sarah's voice and completed the effect. The fact that the machine was right only made him more annoyed.

"Do you think I don't fucking know that?" He glanced at John, who hadn't moved despite his raised voice. "She can kick my ass. We're not leaving her in there for the Triple 8, or for the Feds to lock up and throw away the key."

The machine gave him another look, this one tinged with curiosity. "Sarah would order me to stay with John."

"And John will order you to go to Sarah." He shook his head in despair. "And I thought the future was fucked up."

Slowing the truck for a red light, Cameron contemplated her response until the light turned green. "The future is fucked up," she said pragmatically. "This is merely complicated."

. . . . .

The over-bright neon strip lights were making Sarah's headache worse, and she struggled to concentrate on what Auldridge was asking her, afraid of letting her guard slip even for a second.

Not having gotten very far with slick and smartass, Auldridge was now attempting to be sympathetic and approachable. He had released the handcuffs from around her wrists and turned her hands over in his, frowning at the oozing wounds the restraints had left, and promising her warm water and clean dressings. Sitting quietly, his body language reserved, he had expressed his belief in her, in time travel and cyborgs and the apocalypse to come.

He had sounded so sincere, and it had been so tempting, just for a second, to confide in someone and shift the burden slightly from her own shoulders. But she had remembered another man, a man who had also released the chains from her wrists and allowed her to see a chink of freedom before hauling her back into the dark. That time, she hadn't seen it coming, and she was determined now not to yield to the same technique. So, when he finally got around to what was really at the crux of all his heartfelt promises, and pledged his desire to help her and to help her son, Sarah was able to look him in the eye without flinching as she gave him her answer.

"My son is dead."

Auldridge had shaken his head once and banged on the door of the interrogation room. Before the prison guard entered, he had turned to her, asking her if she knew who Danny Dyson was.

"Danny?" She was thrown momentarily, wondering if it was another kind of trick. "Miles Dyson's son."

He watched as the guard closed the cuffs around her wrists, not intervening when she bit her lip against the pain. "Do you know where he is?"

"No." She ignored the burning running up her arms, her interest piqued. "Why?"

"He's been missing for three months."

He nodded at the guard, who pulled her up by her arm and led her out of the room, meeting no resistance as she tried to match pieces in a puzzle for which Auldridge had barely started to collect the clues.

Left alone in her cell, Sarah lay down on the cot and pulled her arms tightly towards her chest. She could hear the shouts and coded conversations of other women in the neighboring cells, and the random clang of doors opening and closing. Too cold and too wired to sleep, she forced herself not to think about John, and found herself thinking about Danny Dyson instead.

Auldridge's reveal about Danny had unwittingly confirmed Derek's theory, that Sarah had been the intended target at the Dysons'. Although there were other possibilities, she knew in her gut that Kaliba were behind Danny's disappearance, and that his name had been nothing more than a lure to draw her and anyone she was working with into a trap. Which meant that Derek's second theory – the one he had tried so hard to skirt around – had also been correct: Kaliba now knew exactly who Sarah was, and had sent metal to eliminate her and anyone else who happened to get caught in the crossfire.

Looking at the bars and the three gray walls, Sarah felt the pounding in her head intensify. She wondered how long she had until the T-888 attempted to complete its mission.

. . . . .

The key was where Sarah had said it would be. Derek closed the glass door of the lantern carefully; like everything else around them, it looked old and worn. When, to his surprise, the generator started first time, he realized that someone must have been paid to carry out general maintenance on the cabin. Inside, it had been kept in a reasonable state of repair, perfect for the occasion when your injured son, his uncle from the future, and their cybernetic bodyguard might have to flee to it.

He turned on the lights, which flickered but stayed on. Once a small fire in the grate had begun to spread fingers of warmth to chase away the damp of the main room, he went back to the truck for John.

Sitting up in the back seat, John smiled slightly at Derek's look of surprise. "I woke up while you were off playing Grizzly Adams. Cameron's setting up a perimeter."

"C'mon, let's get you inside."

Together, they managed to half-walk, half-stagger the short distance to the cabin. When John shook his head at the suggestion that he lie down, Derek steered him to the sofa.

"I've slept enough." John shivered slightly and didn't protest when Derek threw a woolen rug over his knees. "You brought my laptop in yet?"

Derek nodded, pulling it from the pile of bags and sliding the case over to him. "They've taken her to the Los Angeles County Jail, if that helps any."

John's good hand stopped flying across the keys and he looked up at Derek. His face was still pale and sweaty, his hair stuck up on end, but his eyes gleamed as he grinned, happy to have an ally.

"Yes, thank you. That helps a lot."

. . . . .

The T-888 stepped over the rapidly cooling body and lifted the duffel bag crammed with weapons as if it weighed nothing at all. Manny had been extremely obliging, meeting every one of the machine's requests, including providing the silencer for the gun that had subsequently killed him. He had seemed shocked by the turn of events, holding his hands up and backing away in a defensive move that had always intrigued the machine, because it was so utterly futile.

A small glitch in the uppermost corner of the machine's visual interface made it hesitate before starting the car's engine. It would have to be fixed, which would necessitate a delay, but the machine was unconcerned. Sarah Connor was confined, undefended, and wouldn't be going anywhere for a long time.

. . . . .

The dining hall was crowded, noisy, and ripe with the smell of poor hygiene and institutional food. It was doing nothing to improve Sarah's appetite, but when the guard had come for her he hadn't given her an option. Trying to remain inconspicuous, she took the opportunity to study the people around her. The majority of the guards were female, and she didn't pay much attention to them, concentrating on the faces and demeanor of the males instead. Cameron had given an excellent description of the T-888 and none of the guards standing in the hall matched it. Taking a tray, Sarah stepped forward a couple of paces.

It wasn't a sound that made her turn, just a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye; she threw the tray out in front of her as the blade came up. It was a blind, defensive move, the tray catching a woman's hands then continuing upwards to slam into her face, sending her to the floor, her shiv skittering away to get lost beneath tables and feet. An alarm blared suddenly, as the women around Sarah reacted angrily to her seemingly unprovoked attack, hands reaching for her, catching in her hair, and clawing at her face and arms. Still using the tray, she was able to fend off the worst of the efforts, women falling away from her, nursing bruises and cuts.

Then, without warning, she was thrown to the ground, something heavy sitting on her legs and a knee pinning her in the small of her back, as handcuffs were snapped around her wrists.

"Food not to your liking?" The guard sounded breathless and more than a little puzzled as he pulled her to her feet, deferring to another officer for guidance.

"Get her over to twenty-one. Fucking crazy bitch."

Sarah looked up, the voice sounding familiar, to meet the resentful gray eyes of Johnson, the police officer who had originally brought her to the jail. He winked at her as she was taken past him. With a sinking feeling, she turned to see him help the prisoner who had initiated the attack back onto her feet, then slip a crumpled wad of bills into her hand.

. . . . .

Twenty-one was solitary confinement. A cell away from the main corridor, with a solid door, a bare cot, and a toilet. Three guards escorted Sarah there, two standing with nightsticks and CS gas at the ready as the third removed her restraints. The door slammed shut, multiple locks sliding into place, and she was left breathing heavily in the dark, the adrenaline beginning to wear off and make her legs shake. She walked the three paces to the cot and sat down on its edge, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. Moving her hands across the mattress, she pulled at the cot's metal frame, working her fingers into its joints, feeling for weaknesses or loose parts. Nothing gave way, and the fixtures of the toilet were just as firmly attached.

"Shit."

With no way of defending herself, Sarah sat with her back against the wall, hugged her knees to her chest, and watched the door.

. . . . .

Cameron studied the sprawling blueprints on the laptop and stored them efficiently in her CPU, highlighting the female wing of the jail and several potential access and egress points. Meanwhile, all of his nervous energy spent, John was leaning back on the pillows in the smaller of the two bedrooms, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"This plan has many flaws."

John nodded at the machine's tactful understatement. "I know."

Aside from the blueprints, they really didn't have a plan beyond Cameron breaking into the jail, finding his mother and breaking out again.

"It is very likely to fail."

"I know that too."

"Your mother wouldn't want you to do this."

"Cameron, I know." His voice broke then, low and desperate. "I can't leave her there."

"I know." She clicked a key on the laptop and closed it. "I have to finish the perimeter. Five, perhaps six more hours. I will be as quick as I can." She pulled the blanket higher to cover him.

He caught her fingers in his. "Thank you."

A nod, her face inscrutable, and she turned to leave, dimming the main light and pulling the door closed behind her.

On the sofa in the living room, Derek was loading weapons, methodical and unhurried, his own nerves forgotten as he focused on the task. Cameron watched him for a minute, gauging his mood before she interrupted.

"John said I am not to kill anyone and must try to engage only the Triple 8."

Derek slapped another magazine into place and set the weapon down. "John's seventeen and idealistic." Without hesitation, he took up a semi-automatic and an oiled cloth. "And sometimes the world just doesn't fucking play that way."

. . . . .

Sarah's eyes were closed as she lay on the cot, but she wasn't sleeping, and she tensed as the door to her cell slowly opened. This wasn't a routine check, it wasn't the clank and thud of the door's small observation hatch to make sure that she didn't have a noose around her neck. There was nothing routine about this, which meant that this wasn't a good thing at all.

Two sets of heavy footsteps entered the cell, the door closing behind them. She was already moving in the dark, aching muscles protesting at the speed with which she was making them function, but even so she knew that she wouldn't be quick enough. She had barely made it to her feet when hands clamped around her wrists, dragging them behind her back and holding them tightly. Kicking and twisting, she struggled to break free, but the man calmly shifted his grip and wrenched her arms upwards, forcing her to her knees in an effort to prevent her shoulders from dislocating. Panting against the pain, she heard a familiar grating sound as a thin cable tie was tightened around her wrists, biting into the raw abrasions that had never been given a chance to heal. A second man, head shrouded in a black ski mask, knelt in front of her and stuffed a rag into her mouth, grinning with nicotine-stained teeth when her eyes widened in shock.

Without being given time to adjust, she was hauled back to her feet. Panic was making her light-headed; she stopped trying to fight, focusing instead on breathing through her nose as she waited for the black spots to stop swimming across her vision.

"Fucking bitch," the man still holding her arms hissed into her ear. Even with the coarse wool of his ski mask brushing against her cheek, she easily identified Johnson from his voice. "This is for Alvarez and Sykes. They both had kids, y'know."

Alvarez and Sykes: names to go with the faces of the men she hadn't killed. She knew them as innocent victims of a war that was being waged on their behalf, but there was no way that the two men in her cell, too cowardly even to show their faces, were interested in any kind of explanation.

The first punch was perfectly placed in her solar plexus to drive all of Sarah's hard-fought breath from her. She tried to lean forward, only for the second punch to slam into her jaw. Blood filled her mouth, soaking into the gag, but she managed to lift her head, to see the man in front of her dancing on his toes like a prize fighter.

"So much for not leaving a mark, huh?" Johnson sounded amused and completely unconcerned, and whistled in appreciation as a ring on his partner's hand connected with the soft flesh above Sarah's left eye and cut in deeply. "Oh, ouch. That might even leave a scar…"

His breath was warm on her cheek, heating the blood flowing down her face, and she could feel him hardening where her hands were trapped between their bodies. She felt dizzy and incredibly sick, barely reacting to the blows raining down on her as she struggled to stay alert and on her feet. Losing consciousness in her present company was simply not an option.

She shifted her hands slightly, hearing the catch in Johnson's breath as they brushed against the front of his pants.

"I don't fucking believe this bitch…"

He never completed the sentence, never got to voice his amazement that the woman they were busy beating was actually attempting to grope him. Instead, he shrieked in agony as her fingers clamped around his groin and twisted everything that she had managed to get a decent grip of. He was still letting out a high-pitched wail as he released her arms and she spun around, catching him in the chest with a roundhouse kick that took him to the floor.

She watched him writhe for a second, satisfied that he was no longer a threat, then raised her head and braced herself for the inevitable retribution.

It was swift and utterly predictable. She curled herself into a ball when she landed on the floor, knees drawn up to protect her ribs, her head bowed low. Someone was whimpering, but she wasn't sure if it was herself or the man flailing around beside her. Eventually, the kicking slowed, punctuated by harsh breathing as if her tormentor's exertions had finally gotten the better of him. He bent low, whispering filth and promises of more pain to come, before hauling Johnson up and aiming one last parting boot into Sarah's left kidney. It was a deliberate shot and it hurt, drowning out all the other pain to cut through her back like a heated knife. She tried to bite down on it, but she heard him laugh at the thin cry that escaped her. Then the cell door slammed shut and she was left alone in the darkness.

She lay perfectly still, the silence broken only by her labored breathing and the slow splatter of blood onto the floor. Nausea hit her without warning, and – terrified of choking – she forced the gag out past her swollen lips before retching helplessly, bringing back the blood she had swallowed and what little food had been in her stomach. The violent movement made pain erupt everywhere, stealing her self-control and leaving her sobbing and shaking. When gray began to creep into the edges of her vision, she fell willingly into the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

There were no further checks that night. The hatch remained closed, the cell undisturbed. The log book was correctly filled in, signatures attesting to an uneventful shift. The two guards on duty – both agency employees – handed over to the day shift, and then collected brown envelopes from a police officer whose name they didn't know. Neither of them questioned why someone would want to pay them so much money to sit on their asses and look the other way. It had been an extremely lucrative night for them, and, when it came down to it, that was all that mattered.

. . . . .

"Breakfast." The guard looked down at the tepid white mush masquerading as oatmeal and the cup of greasy coffee on the tray he was holding. "Well, in a manner of speaking." He unfastened the hatch on twenty-one and took a quick glance inside, ready to slide the tray into place.

"Oh Jesus Christ!"

Hands suddenly trembling, he set the tray on the floor, fumbling for the correct key on his chain and opening the cell door.

"Miss?" It was too early in the morning, and he couldn't remember her name. "Miss? Can you hear me?"

She didn't move until he touched her; a soft moan and the slightest turn of her head when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

Shouting into his radio for medics and backup and anyone who knew what the hell had happened, the guard was vaguely aware of the answering clamor, as he knelt in a pool of congealed blood, and – no idea what to do for the best – patted the woman's shoulder.

. . . . .

"The Feds don't want her moved."

"The Feds can kiss my fucking ass. We don't have the facilities to assess her properly here."

"Ninety-two over sixty. Pulse is around one-ten." Deanne took the blood pressure cuff from Sarah's upper arm and watched as she tucked herself back into the fetal position she had lain in since they had cut the plastic that bound her wrists.

The doctor stopped arguing with the guard at the cell door and dropped to a crouch beside her. "Shit. What a mess." He sighed. "Bring the gurney in here and cancel my appointments for the day; they can all take some fucking Tylenol." Sarah's face was ashen, her hair wet with sweat, and she was holding herself so still she was barely able to draw a breath. "Dee, get a line into her before we move her: ten of morphine and whatever you have there to stop her vomiting. She's been left like this all fucking night." He laid a gentle hand on Sarah's forehead. "You, young lady, are certainly keeping an old man on his toes."

She opened her eyes a little at that, as if to apologize, but they closed again when the morphine hit her, and her face gradually lost some of its agonized tension.

"Okay." Nodding at the nurse, he motioned impatiently for assistance from the prison guards crowded at the door. "Carefully, on three…"

. . . . .

"Fucking animals." Deanne had finished cutting the top half of Sarah's jumpsuit away and was staring at the bruising that covered her torso. "I'm gonna clean you up some, okay?"

Sarah nodded, trying hard to stay awake but mostly failing. They had given her more morphine once they had realized the extent of her injuries, and she could hear the doctor talking heatedly on the phone about transferring her to a hospital. She closed her eyes as the nurse worked a warm cloth over her face, scrubbing away the dried blood and making small noises of disgust at the lacerations and contusions underneath.

The phone slammed down and footsteps approached the bed.

"She'll need X-rays, doc: ribs, couple of fingers on her left hand, right cheekbone. She won't lie on her back; you need to take a look at that."

"Yeah, well, she won't be getting X-rays. We have orders to keep her here." He laughed bitterly. "They're afraid she might escape if they permit the transfer. I did tell them to stick their order for restraints up their collective asses, though. Jesus, that's nasty…"

There was a cool draft on her back, and Sarah realized he had shifted the blanket covering her.

"I'm not surprised she won't lie on that." He carefully palpated the area surrounding the livid hematoma that had been her assailant's parting gift.

Sarah held herself rigid, the pain unbearable. "Don't..."

It was only a whisper, but the doctor moved his hand away immediately, a frown creasing his brow. "We get the ultrasound back from service yet?"

"Yeah, last Thursday."

"We need to scan this, see if there's any renal damage. Get an ice pack on it for the swelling, and hang a liter of saline, keep her pressure up. Then I guess we suture what we can, and try to get her comfortable." He bent down low so Sarah could see him. "Bet you feel like crap, huh?"

She met his eyes slowly and nodded; nothing to be gained by pretending otherwise.

"Don't worry. We'll get you fixed up."

She didn't know whether it was the kindness in his voice or his choice of phrase, but a surge of homesickness hit her, and she closed her eyes miserably.

Misunderstanding her reaction, he moved urgently to administer more pain relief, then smoothed the blanket back over her. "We'll get the scan done, then you can get some sleep, okay?"

She shook her head. She didn't want to sleep, it wasn't safe, but the drugs were too strong, and when she felt the cold press of the ultrasound on her back she gave up resisting and let them take her under.

. . . . .

The speed limit for the road was sixty; Cameron kept the truck at a steady fifty-eight. With a trunk full of weapons and explosives that no permit in the world would allow her to carry, getting pulled over was not an option. There was still a long way to go, but she wouldn't have to take a break or sleep, and the quickest route was already mapped out in her CPU. Content with her progress, Cameron turned the stereo up; one eye on the road, the other studying the plans of the jail, her face betraying nothing as her lips moved to the lyrics. No-one overtaking her would have suspected a thing.

. . . . .

"Three fractured ribs, two fractured fingers on her left hand. Right cheek is probably fractured, but that's not easy to tell without an X-ray. Concussion, multiple contusions, eight stitches above her left eye. We had to put a catheter in: she was kicked so hard in the back that she's passing blood." The doctor looked up from Sarah's file. "In short, Agent, to answer your question, no, she's not well enough to be interviewed."

Auldridge looked slightly paler than he had on arrival at the infirmary. He held a hand up defensively. "I just want to try and find who did this." He hesitated uneasily. "Was she raped?"

"No. No indication of sexual assault. She remembers everything that happened." The doctor gestured for Auldridge to walk with him. "Says there were two of them, and apparently one of the bastards will be singing in a falsetto for the next week or so." He smiled at the thought, but it heralded a darker theory. "Probably forced a change in their plans. Otherwise…"

"Yeah." Auldridge stopped dead as he reached Sarah's bed. "Damn."

She was sleeping, curled on her side. Most of her injuries were hidden by blankets, but her left eye was swollen shut, an ugly criss-cross of black sutures above it, and the hand on top of the bedding was splinted, the wrist heavily bandaged.

The nurse at the bedside looked up from the chart she was writing on, ignoring Auldridge to address the doctor. "She's had the first liter of saline and the antibiotics. Six hundred mls out and she's still bleeding. Seems to have slowed, though. She asked for water but I've stuck with ice chips for now."

"Good. That's fine." The doctor turned back to Auldridge; he had forgotten the agent was even there. "Would you like me to page you when we've weaned her off the morphine a little?"

Auldridge nodded, still looking queasy. "Yes. Please. Whenever you think is best." He handed his card over, his mouth opening then closing as he looked back at Sarah. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and laden with guilt. "My superiors are demanding that she be restrained. She escaped from a maximum security psychiatric facility. It's regulation."

It sounded ridiculous and he knew it, but Auldridge was a career man, and Sarah Connor was a career-making case. He took a set of handcuffs from his belt and closed one link around the dressings on her right wrist, fastening the other side to the bed rail. Sarah stirred, unsettled by the movement around her, but didn't seem to be aware of what he had done. Auldridge breathed a sigh of relief, unable to meet the nurse's eyes as she glowered at him and attempted to reassure her patient.

"Was there anything else, Agent?" The doctor's voice was icy.

Auldridge shook his head, leaving the infirmary quickly and without looking up.

The doctor, taking account of the flush of anger coloring Deanne's cheeks, broke the silence first. "Coffee?"

She nodded gratefully.

A few minutes later she was wrapping her hands around the mug he handed her, laughing when he poured whiskey into it from a hip flask.

"Fuck 'em. We've earned it today, and I'm not putting a dime into that tin of yours." He tapped his mug against hers. There was a clink and rattle as Sarah tried to turn herself. The doctor drank deeply, then added more alcohol before repeating his declaration loudly and with feeling: "Fuck 'em all."

. . . . .

"Sign here. And another here." The woman took the paperwork back from the man on the other side of her desk and smiled broadly at him, fluttering her false eyelashes. "Well, Mr. Forrester, your references are excellent, and – as it happens – two of our most reliable employees have just quit the agency. I have a position available on the night shift. Would tomorrow night suit you?"

"Yes."

"Okay." A slight note of wariness crept into her voice. The man was undeniably handsome, but there was something strange and disconnected about him as he observed her without blinking. "You'll need to report to the front gate for eight-thirty to pick up your uniform, and the shift is nine until six in the morning."

"Fine." He stood to leave.

She handed him his copy of the forms he had completed. "Now, you do know where the facility is, don't you? We don't like our staff to be late."

"Yes." The T-888 had an excellent working knowledge of the LA County Jail. "I won't be late."

. . . . .

Derek added more wood to the fire and gave the embers a poke, waiting for the new fuel to catch and begin to smolder. Turning as he heard the bathroom door open, he watched John walk slowly over to the sofa.

"Better?"

John nodded; his hair was still damp and unruly, his face flushed pink from the heat of the bathwater. "Much."

He sat patiently on the sofa while Derek changed his dressings and secured his right arm in a sling.

"Those are looking pretty good, considering." Derek stood up, collecting the soiled bandages together. "You hungry? We have soup, bagels, and more soup."

John laughed. "I guess I'll have soup, then."

As Derek moved to the small kitchen, John opened his laptop, keying in the code he had been using to hack into the jail's records. If Cameron were to have any chance of success, she would need to be able to pinpoint Sarah's location within the complex. Scrolling through the inmate register, he reached his mother's name and frowned.

"What the hell?"

Unlike the other names in the list, there was no longer a cell number designated to Connor, Sarah, just a symbol that he didn't recognize. His heart pounding, he clicked on the symbol and stared horrified at the page of dense text that appeared. He had finished reading by the time Derek walked back over, and one look at his face made Derek place the soup on the table and drop to a crouch beside him.

"John?"

John shook his head once, not trusting himself to speak, and turned the computer screen towards Derek.

It took Derek a couple of minutes to read the report which documented Sarah's transfer to solitary, the assault, and the injuries she had sustained.

"Son of a bitch." He stood up, striding away from John, one hand clenched into a fist, the other rubbing the back of his neck. The report had been clinical in its language and unflinching in its detail, and he knew that John had read every word of it. He sat back down next to his nephew, who remained still and silent, trying not to cry.

"She'll be okay."

John nodded too quickly, rubbing his eyes with his fist. "I know she will."

"Harder than nuclear nails, right?"

"Yeah."

"I need to let Cameron know. Try and eat that, okay?" He went outside to make the call.

John picked up the bowl of soup, stirring the noodles and chunks of vegetables, before putting it down again untouched. By the time Derek returned, John had hacked back into the jail's systems, the laptop emitting a series of blank beeps as his attempts to completely break down their firewalls failed. Recognizing the expression on John's face, Derek said nothing, taking the food back into the kitchen and leaning with both hands against the sink. It was a long time before he moved again.

. . . . .

"What...?" It came out as a croak, and Sarah sipped carefully at the water the nurse was holding for her before she tried again. "What time is it?" She didn't recognize the nurse, which meant she had slept through a shift change.

"Five in the morning. How're you feeling?"

"Better." It was all relative, but the fact that she could now lie on her back without screaming was a definite improvement.

"Good. I'll let Doctor Charles know you're awake. He was seeing to a prisoner who got stabbed, so he might be a while."

The nurse left her alone, and Sarah watched her speak to the two guards outside the room before continuing down the corridor. Two guards were never going to be enough. Sarah tried to move, needing to know exactly how bad her injuries were. Her attempt to push herself into a sitting position failed at the first hurdle when she discovered that her right wrist was cuffed to the bed and her left hand was a swollen mess of splinted fingers and sprained ligaments.

"Shit."

She sucked in a shaky breath as pain lanced through her back, and she simultaneously felt the sharp bite of ribs that she hadn't even realized were fractured. Clammy and exhausted with the effort, she leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. There was no way she was admitting defeat, but she had to be realistic about her chances.

. . . . .

Sitting on the front steps of the cabin, John breathed deeply. Something pulled in his chest, but he ignored it, filling his lungs with the cold, sharp smell of the redwoods that surrounded the clearing. The porch creaked, and he moved aside to make space for Derek to sit, taking hold of the plate Derek offered him.

"Did you manage to do it?"

John nodded. "Yes. Finally. I put her in a cell as far away from the infirmary as I could. If the Triple 8 is accessing the same records, it'll be looking for her in the wrong wing." He took a bite of bagel, his appetite creeping back.

"Good. That's good." Derek hunched forward, trying to keep himself still. If those last few hours had taught him anything, it was that inactivity really didn't sit well with him. "What else can we do?"

Fishing in his pocket, John took out a sheet of paper. "Well, I managed to get through another firewall, and, if this is what I think it is…" The paper had one line of numbers and letters scrawled across its center, "…it might just give us the edge."

. . . . .

Cameron left the truck idling while she observed the guard with the German Shepherd dog check in with the guard positioned on the exit marked I1, then continue his patrol around the perimeter. Twenty minutes later, the man would have completed his circuit and would be back at the exit which, according to her plan, afforded the closest access to the infirmary. She had been studying the patterns of the guards for hours now, watching and timing and waiting. The temptation had been there to march straight in, shoot the place to hell, grab Sarah, and march straight out again, but John's warning about collateral damage had mitigated that urge.

The sun was just setting, the sky ablaze with orange and red which still failed to soften the edges of the immense white walls or the wire fencing. It was eight-thirty. Within the next half-hour, the inmates would be back in their cells for the night, and the staffing levels subsequently reduced accordingly. Fewer guards would mean fewer obstacles and, consequently, fewer casualties.

Putting the truck into drive, Cameron pulled away slowly, heading back onto the freeway, where she passed two exits before leaving at the third and parking up on a quiet street. John answered his cellphone on the second ring, and without preamble.

"What time?"

"Nine thirty-two." Which would avoid the guard with the dog.

"How long do you need?"

There were so many variables, and Cameron hesitated, despite having processed numerous scenarios. In the end, she took a leap, basing her estimate on the perimeter guard.

"Twenty minutes."

"Fine. Nine fifty-two." Then it was John's turn to pause, and she heard him force normality into his voice. "Good luck."

With no answer to that, she disconnected the call, sitting motionless and watching the sun as it disappeared completely.

. . . . .

Setting the tray down by Sarah's bedside, Deanne quickly flicked through her chart. "Good to see you with a little more color in your cheeks." She put the chart down, her hand tipping Sarah's chin to appraise the swelling around the sutures. "Although, if I'm honest, purple and green aren't such a good combination on you."

Sarah smiled and allowed the nurse to help her sit up straighter in the bed. Having refused any further doses of morphine, the pervasive drowsiness had finally cleared, and the food Deanne had brought in was smelling reasonably appetizing.

"Right." Deanne put the tray on Sarah's lap, and after a fair bit of maneuvering helped her to balance a spoon in her damaged left hand. "You have some kind of soup that might be chicken, but don't hold me to that. Jell-O, and a fruit cup. Try and choke some of it down for me. Then, because I notice that the day shift have gotten rid of all your tubes, we'll see about getting you into the shower. That sound okay?"

Sarah stopped eyeing the Jell-O with undisguised loathing, and nodded, her face brightening. She was desperate to feel clean, but, more than that, she needed to know that she could get out of the bed without falling flat on her face. If she could walk, then she was damn sure that she could run.

. . . . .

"Forrester! Hey, Forrester!"

The T-888 rested its hand on the gun in the small of its back and turned towards the voice. The shift supervisor, overweight and sweating with the effort of walking at a moderate pace, was waving a clipboard at it.

"I have you down for C-Block. That's A-Block you're heading towards."

A quick but detailed scan of the corridor detected footsteps one hundred yards around the corner and an empty supply closet with a weakened lock. The neck of the supervisor was flabby and greasy, but one brutal twist was all that it took to snap it. By the time the footsteps rounded the corner, the lock dangled loosely but inconspicuously from the closet door, and the T-888 was continuing to make its way towards A-Block.

. . . . .

"Sorry, but he's FBI, and that outranks nurse." Deanne shrugged apologetically. "I'll bring you some warm water. Maybe a hairbrush, huh? He said he'd be five minutes or so."

"Great." The word dripped with sarcasm, Sarah making no attempt to disguise her reaction to the news that Auldridge was on his way to interview her. The pain in her back was like the worst kind of toothache, it had taken her over an hour to eat half a bowl of soup, and the promise of being able to get out of bed had been the only thing that had kept the Jell-O on the tray and not against the nearest wall. She turned herself awkwardly, attempting to find a position that relieved the pressure in her back.

"Dammit."

Lying on her side, she pulled her legs up to her chest, closing her eyes as the injury throbbed steadily in time to her heartbeat. It was making her feel sick, and she was wondering whether or not the soup would make a reappearance in time for Auldridge's arrival, when she heard the first gunshot.

. . . . .

Dropping the unconscious guard to the floor, Cameron quickly cuffed his hands, taped his mouth, and dragged him away from the exit. Her head flew up at the sound of gunfire: distant and off to the right of the complex, but moving as someone, or something, made steady progress in her direction. A Klaxon immediately began to wail, drowning out the voices and cries that were rising in response to the unexpected attack. There was no more advantage to be gained by stealth; Cameron pulled an MP5K and a Glock from her duffel bag, dropped an approaching guard to the floor with a bullet in his knee, and began to walk quickly towards the infirmary.

. . . . .

"Sarah Connor. Where is she?"

The guard was bleeding heavily from the bullet in his gut, but he looked into the eyes of the man holding him by his throat and still hoped that he would find compassion there.

"Where is she?" The grip tightened, making the guard choke, blood splattering onto his chin.

"Infirmary. She's in the infirmary."

Hitting the floor hard, the guard groaned as something deep inside him tore and bled. Lying still, blood pooling beneath him, he realized he had been wrong to hope; there had been nothing in his murderer's eyes at all.

. . . . .

The bandage around Sarah's wrist was damp and reddened with blood, and she ignored the pain as the stain grew brighter and spread. She didn't think that the blood would be enough on its own, but she didn't have the dexterity in her left hand to dislocate the thumb on her right. Unwilling to give up, she gritted her teeth and continued to strain against the metal fastening her to the bed. The two guards outside her room had already deserted their post to assist their colleagues, and she found herself hoping that the medics had been sensible enough to flee to the closest exit.

Without warning, the door was flung open. Sarah bolted upright, left hand fumbling for something, anything, she could use as a weapon, but it was Auldridge who ran in, gun in hand, his eyes flitting around the room before finally coming to rest on Sarah.

"What the fuck is going on?" she said without preamble, her legs tangled up in the bed-sheets as she tried to kick them off.

He stared at her without answering. Then slowly, as if rousing himself from a daze, he pointed the gun at her chest. "He's coming for you." The gun moved, emphasizing his accusation, fear destroying his ability to be logical. "You've arranged this, somehow, and now he's here for you."

For one fleeting moment, she wondered whether Derek had been crazy enough to attempt a rescue, before Auldridge obliterated that notion in an instant.

"He's killing everyone."

Sweat trickled into the hollow of her throat, and she pulled harder at the chain around her wrist. "You have to unlock these."

Auldridge let out a laugh, high and bordering on hysterical. "And make it easier for you?"

She didn't have time for this, no-one had time for this. "It's not here to help me fucking escape! It's here to kill me."

He stared at her, unconvinced, his gun hand unwavering. "Liar."

"It was at the Dysons', it shot my son, killed Tarissa and the two officers. You fucking know that I didn't kill them."

That made him pause, glancing towards the door as a machine gun rattled relentlessly, glass splintered and smashed, and someone called out urgently for help.

"He keeps coming. How can he keep coming?" His voice was barely audible, and she wasn't sure he was asking for an answer.

She gave him one anyway. "Because it's a machine. And it's what they do."

He looked up sharply at that.

She met his eyes, sensing a breakthrough. "We've got to get out of here."

Five, then ten seconds passed, and more people died, more screaming and a small explosion that made the walls of the infirmary tremble.

"No." Auldridge, his decision made, shook his head once. "You're staying here, and you can both answer for this." He checked the clip in his gun and turned away from her. He expected her to start begging, but by the time he left the room she still hadn't uttered a word.

. . . . .

Sarah wasn't going to beg, and there was no fucking way she was going to sit in bed and wait to die. Using her teeth, she tore at the splints and strapping on her left hand, wrenching the dressings loose and then completely away. The entire hand was stiff and sore, and the two fractured fingers wouldn't bend at all, but she reached over the bedrail that she was cuffed to and fumbled blindly with the clasp holding it up.

"C'mon, c'mon! Shit."

She felt the handle give and pushed down, lowering the rail and twisting her right wrist in the cuff as she rolled from the bed and onto the floor. She landed heavily, her breath forced from her, and for a few seconds all she could do was bend double and strain to draw air back into her lungs. She was still tethered to the bed, but at least now she had some freedom of movement. Nothing seemed to be hurting as much as she had expected, and, as the strip lights flickered, she was able to reach above her head and grab her dinner tray from the cabinet, a dish smashing on the cold tiles. She picked up one of the shards to hold in her right hand while she clumsily gripped the metal tray in her left, refusing to acknowledge how completely inadequate her weapons were. The lights popped and buzzed and finally went out, a dim sodium orange gradually burning through as the emergency generator took over.

Crouched low, Sarah pushed herself as far behind the bed as the metal chain would allow. Gunfire crackled close by, the smell of cordite and blood beginning to reach her. Sweat ran into her eyes, making them sting, but she kept them fixed on the door and brandished the tray that she knew had no chance whatsoever of stopping a bullet.


	6. Chapter 6

Agent Auldridge turned a corner and walked straight into hell. Lights hung loose from their ceiling fixtures, showering sparks onto the bodies scattered along the corridor. Some of the victims moaned, clutching wounds and trying to push themselves out of harm's way, their hands and eyes beseeching him to help them. Auldridge stepped around them, walking cautiously towards the only person still standing - a form not much taller than himself – the one who had caused this carnage, and who was now striding unmolested through the path he had cleared.

"FBI! Put your hands where I can see them. Kneel on the ground!"

The figure continued to walk forward; his hands were already visible to the agent and both held firearms. Two more steps, and Auldridge didn't shout another warning, instead firing repeatedly into the chest and head of his target, and watching in horror as the man continued to move, oblivious to the wounds Auldridge had just inflicted.

"Stop." Less of a command than a plea, and it faded in his throat when the figure stepped out of the smoke. The bullet struck Auldridge in the chest, a shock of pain that made his legs collapse, and he hit the wall before sliding slowly to the floor. The red eye of the figure glowed, its pupil dilating and constricting with a metallic whir as it evaluated the fallen agent. Half of its flesh had been torn from its face, chrome glistening beneath the gore and tattered skin. Auldridge shivered, shock and terror taking hold, as the machine stepped over him and walked unhurriedly in the direction of the infirmary. The instant before he lost consciousness, Auldridge prayed that Sarah Connor would forgive him.

. . . . .

Electronic Lock Sub-system: OVERRIDE COMBINATION: VG65-12

The line of code was already typed into the command prompt on the laptop, the red lights set at strategic intervals throughout the plan of the jail, waiting for the signal that would change them all to green. 9.50 pm had already passed; John sat beside Derek, watching the rolling news coverage of an armed riot at the LA County Jail. With the reporters unable to get close, helicopters circled warily overhead, beaming back murky footage of billowing smoke and emergency vehicles rushing to the scene.

At Derek's nod, John deleted the code and leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes. There was no way they could release hundreds of prisoners with a T-888 on the rampage. They had hoped to provide a diversion, not be the cause of a massacre. John closed the security program and turned down the volume on the news broadcast; the journalists knew less than he did, and their breathless speculation was making his head hurt. He had no doubt that the story was an absolute gift for the media, but, somewhere in the midst of it, his mother was being hunted.

. . . . .

The door opened with the slightest of creaks, and Sarah heard something take two steps across the threshold, then stop. She held her breath, aware that the room was being scanned, aware that she could not remain concealed for longer than a heartbeat. Poised like a sprinter on the starting line, she could feel her pulse pounding so loudly she was certain it would give her away. The footsteps moved again, heading straight towards her. She gauged their approach and her own reach, waiting for as long as she dared before hurtling to her feet and crashing the tray against her target. It felt like she had hit a brick wall; the force took her onto her knees, where she found herself staring at a pair of highly polished, regulation boots in a size far too small to belong to the T-888. The boots matched the rest of the police uniform that Cameron had appropriated to facilitate her entrance into the jail.

"Shit." Sarah's throat worked convulsively, her stomach knotting. If Cameron was here then… "John?" His name came out in a gasp, as her knees gave way and she sagged against the bed.

Having picked up the gun that Sarah had knocked to the floor, Cameron gently prised the shattered piece of porcelain from her hand and snapped the chain on the handcuffs.

"John's fine. Derek got the drugs to him in time." She heard Sarah take a shaky breath, and narrowed her eyes. "You look like hell. Can you keep up?"

Not quite trusting her voice, Sarah nodded, allowing the machine to help her to her feet, and trying not to stagger when the room spun and shimmered. She pressed her hand against the wall, her breathing quick and irregular, as her body told her in no uncertain terms that no part of it appreciated being upright.

"We have to go." Cameron was watching the door; the approaching gunfire had quieted, suggesting that there were no more obstacles in the T-888's path, that they were already out of time.

Sarah raised her head, her hair damp with sweat, her face set with pain, and held her hand out for a weapon. She tucked the Glock she was offered into the back of her infirmary-issue pants and gestured for another. The Remington 870 was fully loaded and achingly heavy in her hand, and she took a deep, calm breath as her nerves began to fade.

"Okay. Go."

On her own cue, she took one step, then another, her bare feet soundless on the tiled floor, following Cameron's lead out of the room and into the darkened corridor.

Barely ten yards from the infirmary, Cameron stopped. With no time for a warning, she pushed Sarah into a doorway before unloading both of her weapons into the rapidly approaching T-888. Sarah flattened herself into the small niche, deafened by the roar of the guns discharging so close to her, but when she saw Cameron's lips shape the word back, she sprinted towards the infirmary without hesitation, diving through the door as bullets clattered around her. More shots, closer, louder, then the crash of machine against machine; plaster dust fell from the ceiling the instant before Cameron was flung through the wall, smashing into a heap, where she lay twitching rapidly but devoid of any purposeful movement.

The T-888 had barely set foot in the room when Sarah fired the Remington, opening a gaping hole in the machine's chest and forcing it to take a step back. With a snarl, she pumped the weapon again, her right arm bearing the brunt of the effort, her left only good to balance the gun as she fired. Her second shot tore an arm off the machine, cables fizzing and sparking as the limb flew across the room in a spray of ersatz blood, taking its gun with it, but by no means evening the odds. Another reload, another explosion, and the fucking thing wouldn't fall, reaching for her with its remaining arm outstretched, well aware that that would be more than enough to kill her.

Knocking IV stands and monitors to the floor, Sarah staggered backwards, her muscles burning as she pumped round after round into the monster that had put a bullet in her child and left him to die. She realized that she was screaming at the same time as she realized that the next cartridge would be her last. Backed into the corner, she gasped for breath, her fingers numb, her ears ringing. One more shot, and she took his eye out with it, the red glow exploding as the human-mask of its face disintegrated. It paused, disorientated, and Sarah threw herself beneath the bed in the same instant that Cameron picked herself up from the floor.

Approaching from the T-888's blind side, Cameron slammed it against the wall, pounding its head again and again, aiming the impact for the weakened areas that Sarah had exposed. Its remaining eye dimmed and brightened, circuitry malfunctioning even as it grappled for Cameron's throat. With one hand, Cameron ripped the end-railing from the bed. Sarah, realizing her intention, crawled to a set of drawers and began to upend them, searching frantically amongst the equipment. By the time Cameron had the T-888 pinned under the rail, Sarah had found what she needed; she dropped down beside the machine's head and used the scalpel to cut deeply into its flesh.

"Two inches to the left."

Cameron's voice echoed strangely, but Sarah obeyed it, shifting her aim and peeling back the scalp to expose the chrome skull of the machine. Flicking the protective cap away with the scalpel, she gripped the chip beneath it with a pair of forceps. One clockwise turn, and the chip lifted easily, the terminator powering down with a mechanized sigh as the light in its eye finally faded, then died.

. . . . .

Sarah was still staring at the chip in her hand as she vaguely sensed Cameron limp out of the room. She clawed herself to her feet, trying to fight the leaden sensation that was numbing her limbs and dulling her thoughts.

"Put these on, quickly."

Sarah blinked, her eyes narrowing in confusion; she hadn't heard Cameron return. She realized that Cameron had stripped a guard of his uniform and was holding the clothes out to her. She reached for them, the pants falling to the floor as her left hand failed to find purchase. She felt Cameron thread her arms into the shirt and fasten the buttons for her, before kneeling and helping her to pull the pants on.

"It might be safer if you sit down."

Sarah shook her head. "I'm okay."

Apparently, the machine knew better than to argue. "Get the arm." She pointed Sarah in the direction the limb had travelled in and left her to retrieve it. Opening her duffel bag, she pulled out a container and sprinkled thermite generously over and around the remains of the T-888. Then, as she waited for Sarah to return, she pulled the controlled drugs safe from the wall and took the opportunity to replenish their supplies.

"You're gonna burn it?" Sarah placed the arm on the T-888's chest and eyed the thermite warily, mindful of the victims lying in the corridors, still in need of evacuation.

"Yes. We can't remove it. The infirmary is set apart from the main body of the jail. It should give people time. There is no other option." Cameron took the handcuffs from her uniform and closed one side around the bed's rail, removing the broken set that had been used to restrain Sarah. "If the fire takes hold, they may believe you died in it."

Sarah nodded; it was a good idea, and if she had been functioning at the top of her game she might have thought of it herself.

Reaching up to Sarah's forehead, Cameron encouraged the blood that was trickling from a split stitch to run down her cheek, before pulling a cap down low over her face. Sparks flew from the flare as soon as Cameron struck it, and she set it down on the thermite, waiting until the powder glowed white-hot and began to eat away at the ruined endoskeleton. Smoke rose thick and choking.

Sarah coughed, her eyes starting to water. "We need to go."

"Yes. Lean on me." Cameron hefted the bag and held her arm out.

"I'm fine."

"I know. It'll look better. Lean on me."

Sarah slowly caught the implication and allowed Cameron to wrap an arm around her. Voices were already audible, heading in their direction, as the flames crept and spread through the room.

"Keep your head down."

Staggering alongside the machine, Sarah saw the boots of Fire and Rescue teams rushing by them, and heard Cameron announce, "She's injured, I need to get her out of here," and their affirmative responses. They stepped over the paramedics treating the fallen, now fewer in number, the most critical having been treated and removed first. No-one stopped them as they made their way to the exit, and, in the fresh chaos sown by the fire, no-one thought to question why the injured prison guard being helped along by the police officer was barefoot.

. . . . .

Cameron propped Sarah up against the patrol car, aware that for the last ten minutes Sarah's need for her assistance had not been feigned.

"Lie down in the back."

"Mmhmm." Sarah didn't argue; lying down seemed like an excellent idea, and she crawled onto the seat, shivering uncontrollably. "Where's the truck?" Her teeth chattered on every word, prompting Cameron to wrap a jacket over her.

"Hidden. We'll pick it up in a half-hour or so."

The engine started, red and blue flashing across the windows as Cameron pulled out slowly and made her way to the main gate. When the guard signaled for her to stop, her hand reached surreptitiously for the 9mm at the side of her seat, but he took one look at her uniform, became mercifully distracted by a fire-truck on its way in, and waved her through.

"Cover your face." A low warning to Sarah, and just in time, as multiple camera flashes assailed them from the media gathered just beyond the security cordon. Cameron drove through as quickly as she dared, clearing the line then accelerating hard, maintaining her speed onto the freeway. Dropping to the legal limit, she switched the strobes off, cranked up the heater and glanced in the rearview mirror.

"We're clear."

Sarah opened her eyes, the briefest hint of a smile crossing her face. But she made no attempt to sit up.

. . . . .

The wheels skidded slightly and churned up dust as Cameron pulled the truck to a stop at the roadside. Still in the back seat, Sarah was barely visible under a blanket, and didn't stir as she slept off a dose of codeine.

Three coded beeps, and John answered his cellphone, his voice agitated and scared. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." Cameron did her best to sound reassuring. "The Triple 8 is destroyed…"

John cut her off. "My mom?"

"She's fine." It wasn't the first lie she had ever told him. "She's sleeping, I don't want to wake her."

"Okay, okay." He couldn't disguise the tremor in his voice. "Derek wants to speak to you, hold on."

A brief pause, and then she heard Derek take the phone and walk a short distance, closing a door behind him.

"How is she?"

"She took pain relief without being prompted. She's sleeping."

"Fuck." Footsteps as he paced.

"It hasn't been safe for me to stop for any length of time."

"No. Try and keep going. How far out are you?"

"Approximately five hours."

"Right, right." Wood creaked, and she realized he had gone outside and was walking across the cabin's front porch. "Let me know if anything changes."

"Yes."

It had been an order, not a request, but Cameron noted that he waited for her to answer before he ended the call.

As the truck began to move again, Sarah mumbled softly, and Cameron reached back, pulling the blanket straight, as they passed the city limits.

. . . . .

The burger was a funny shade of gray, limp lettuce added as an afterthought, grease slick on its paper wrapper. Sarah looked at it with disdain before dropping it back in its bag.

Cameron watched her through the rearview mirror. "Derek says you should eat something."

"Yeah, well, I could eat it…" Sarah closed the bag tightly, her stomach recoiling from the smell, "…but Derek won't be happy if I puke all over his truck again." She leaned her head back against the seat, wishing it would stop pounding, wishing everything would stop pounding, and offered a compromise. "I'll drink some of the juice, okay? Next time he calls, tell him I drank some of the juice."

The Gatorade surprised her by actually settling her stomach a little. She managed half of the bottle, which earned her a quick nod of satisfaction from Cameron. She screwed the top back on tightly and set it aside. She had half-heard the soft hum of the radio while she had been dozing, and she leaned forward slightly in the seat, her mouth dry again despite the juice.

"How many died?"

Cameron didn't try to defer the question, and she had enough sense not to use empty platitudes in an attempt to alleviate the guilt evident in Sarah's voice. "Eighteen. Twenty-three injured, twelve of those are critical. The infirmary was completely destroyed. Later reports are listing you amongst the dead."

"Jesus." Racked by a sudden chill, Sarah shuddered, sitting back and drawing the blanket over herself. Outside the window, gray clouds were massing, rain beginning to clatter against the glass. She closed her eyes, listening to the storm gathering strength. "Jesus."

. . . . .

It was always the same. Blood and fire and metal and her son lying broken and motionless as the machine grinned and the world ended.

"Sarah?"

Sarah flinched at the touch on her shoulder, her eyes flying open. She closed them again when she realized that she was still in the truck, the leather seats sticky with tears and blood and saliva. It took her a minute to sit up, cleaning her face with the coarse wool of the blanket.

"How far away are we?"

Cameron had stopped the truck. Sarah lowered a window, the cool air making her shiver, but it smelled of fresh rain and pine, and that told her they were close. She took the water that Cameron handed back and sipped it gratefully.

"We're seven miles out. You said to wake you at five, but…"

"No, it's fine." Sarah's throat was parched; she knew she had been screaming.

Opening her door, she pulled herself out of the truck and straightened with a groan. The codeine had long since worn off. Her bare feet sank into wet earth, and she ignored the sting of something sharp as she took the three steps to the front passenger door. It opened for her, Cameron leaning across with a look of barely concealed disapproval.

"John knows that you are hurt."

"I know." Sarah wiped the cold sweat from her forehead with the stained bandage around her wrist, and allowed Cameron to clip her seatbelt into place.

"I don't think this will fool either of them."

Sarah looked at the machine, who was staring at her with a perplexed expression. "I know." She shrugged in lieu of an explanation. "But you can't blame a girl for trying." She nodded to Cameron and eased herself back in the seat. "Drive."

. . . . .

At some point while Sarah had been asleep, Cameron had called John, and he was waiting outside with Derek when the truck pulled up.

His haste made him fumble as he tried to open the passenger door. Sarah stared at him, forgetting to help, barely able to believe how well he looked compared with the last time she had seen him. When he finally flung the door wide, he knelt without hesitation and wrapped his good arm around her. He sobbed once, the sound choked off and muffled by her clothing, but she could feel the fine tremors that were coursing through him as he held her. She kissed the top of his head, her own tears falling unheeded into his hair as her grip on his shirt turned her fingers white. Minutes passed before he drew away, and his wince when he looked up at her had nothing to do with his own injury.

"God, mom." He tugged his sleeve down over his hand and wiped her eyes, the lightest of touches around the one that remained bloodshot and swollen. "They made a mess of you."

"They made a mess of us both." She put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back slightly so she could see him properly. "Are you really alright?"

He nodded. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." That earned him a raised eyebrow, and he grinned. "Yeah, I know, like that'll ever happen."

Sarah could see Cameron consulting with Derek by the cabin. As he began to walk over, she swung her legs slowly down to the ground. He stopped a couple of paces away, his question unspoken but his face easy for her to read: can you make it?

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head once. "John, go help Cameron with the bags," she ordered firmly.

John looked at her for a long moment before abandoning any attempt at protest. A quick kiss on her cheek, and he left her alone with Derek.

"Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey yourself." Derek put his arm around her. "I guess you're going to be walking."

"Yeah."

He laughed softly and eased her to her feet, tightening his hold when she swayed.

"You staying up?" She had closed her eyes, her breath coming fast and shallow against his cheek, but he felt her nod.

"Yeah."

"Okay, then."

They took a step together, then another. It was slow and awkward and she realized that there was glass in her feet, but she didn't fall.


	7. Chapter 7

Sarah hadn't moved or spoken since Derek had sat her on the bed. She was hunched slightly forward, her right hand supporting ribs that he knew were fractured. He took her left hand in both of his, hearing her breath catch as he touched her fingers. He pulled a pillow onto her lap, set her hand down onto it and opened the first aid kit. There was everything that he needed, and more besides – Cameron had obviously restocked – but he hesitated, looked at Sarah, and shut the lid again.

"Here."

He wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders. When he stood up and stepped back, she raised her head, confused.

"Give me a couple of minutes, okay?"

Welcoming any reprieve from the inevitable setting and splinting and suturing, she pulled the blanket tighter and closed her eyes. "Okay."

. . . . .

It took closer to ten minutes. By the time Derek went back for her, Sarah was half-asleep, still sitting exactly where he had left her.

"C'mere."

Blinking drowsily, she stood up with him, and he led her into the small bathroom. It was warmer in there, steam rising from the bath he had just drawn. Crouching in front of her as she sat on the toilet lid, he unbuttoned the uniform shirt she was wearing and pushed it down and off her shoulders, leaving her in the scrubs top from the infirmary.

"Can you lift your arms?"

She did as she was asked, biting her lip as her ribs sent stabs of pain through her chest and her back screamed a protest.

"Fucking hell." Derek uttered the curse with vehemence. With the cotton shirt balled up in his fist, he was staring at the contusions that covered her torso: a too-vivid portrait of the violence inflicted upon her, rendered in deep purples and blues and greens.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she said quietly, turning slightly when his hands guided her to.

He touched the swelling on her back, his fingers so light that all she could feel was the subtle roughness of the calluses on their tips. When he rocked back from her he looked sick. "You passing any blood?"

"No." She shook her head, trying to put an end to that particular issue, but he wasn't deterred.

"No?"

"No." A sigh, but she held his gaze. "Not anymore."

"Jesus, Sarah."

"I'm okay."

He ran his hand across the coarse stubble on his chin, not convinced at all.

She held her hand out to him, motioning for him to help her stand. "Bathwater's getting cold." She smiled as a thought occurred to her. "And I'm not sure I can get out of two pairs of pants by myself."

Shaking his head with a smile of his own, he helped her to unfasten the pants then step out of the clothing. She held his arm as she stepped into the bath, lowering herself into the water with a soft murmur of appreciation.

He handed her soap and a sponge. "You need anything else?"

"No. Thanks."

"Give me a shout when you're done."

"Mmhmm." She pushed herself lower into the water. "I shout and John'll probably come running." She wrapped her fingers around his where they rested on the porcelain. "Stay."

. . . . .

The hot water had given Sarah's skin an artificially healthy glow, but she was upright only by virtue of the pillows that she was now propped against, and awake only because the Tylenol that she had finally consented to take hadn't done much to dull the pain in her hand and her back.

Derek said nothing as he unwound the tattered bandage from her wrist. Her left wrist had been bad enough, but she had warned him that her right would probably be worse. The dressing, pre-soaked in the bath, came away easily, and he did well to disguise his reaction to the inflamed collection of seeping wounds that wrapped full circles around her wrist. The separate ligature marks were easy to distinguish. He held her hand up to the light and managed to keep his voice neutral.

"You didn't bite this, did you?"

Her low laugh turned into a gasp as he touched an antiseptic-soaked cloth to the abraded skin. "No. I didn't bite it." He saw her bare toes curl in response to the pain; her left hand was already immobilized, preventing her from twisting the sheets with her fingers. "When the Triple 8 came for me, I was in the infirmary." She hesitated, but she knew by the expression on Derek's face that he had already filled in the gaps. "They'd handcuffed me to the bed."

He nodded and continued to clean her wrist, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"They didn't realize," she said quietly. "They didn't know what had happened at the Dysons'. They didn't know what they were up against in the jail." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I couldn't tell them, not until it was too late. I could handle being in the jail, but I couldn't…" She shook her head, choking on her confession. "I couldn't let them send me back to Pescadero."

Derek set the cloth down and gripped her hand. "Sarah?"

She lifted her head slowly to look at him and he tipped her chin with his finger.

"You know we'd have gotten you out of there as well, don't you?"

She didn't, couldn't, reply to that, and he took the option off the table by leaning in and kissing her. Her lips were chapped but warm, and she didn't pull away, her tongue flicking out briefly to touch his. It lasted no longer than a few seconds, but afterwards she relaxed against the pillows, and her hand didn't shake when she offered it back to him.

He took the cloth up again. "Let's get this done. Then maybe get you something to eat." He shrugged apologetically. "We only have soup, though."

Sarah shook her head. "There's a locked unit in the kitchen. It's got all kinds of canned and dried food in it." She had the grace to look guilty as Derek narrowed his eyes at her. "I guess I forgot to mention it."

"I can't believe we didn't think to open it. We've eaten so much fucking soup, I was starting to miss your cooking."

She gave him a skeptical look.

He considered what he had just said, then nodded in acknowledgement and began to wrap a bandage around her wrist. "Okay, so maybe that was a slight overstatement…"

. . . . .

It wasn't much of a meal: pasta and meat sauce, but it was hot and there was plenty of it, and to John's delight it wasn't soup.

Sarah had insisted on sitting at the small table with John and Derek, then surprised herself by rediscovering her appetite. She pretended not to notice John's look of relief when she accepted the offer of a second serving and finished that too.

While Derek made coffee, John helped her over to the sofa, his arm around her waist, his fingers splayed across her ribs.

He sat beside her with a worried frown on his face. "You've lost weight, mom."

"Probably," she admitted. She picked up the mug of coffee Derek set down for her, and warmed her hand against it. "Prison food left a lot to be desired, and the infirmary food was worse."

John didn't seem entirely placated. "You going to take it easy for a while?"

She sipped her coffee, knowing that right now no amount of caffeine in the world would be sufficient to keep her awake for much longer. "Yes," she said sincerely. "I think we're all going to be taking it easy for a while."

John smiled at that and stood up. "I'm gonna go to bed." He kissed the top of her head. "It's good to have you back, mom."

She smiled. "It's good to be back."

Derek waited until the door had closed behind John before moving to sit beside her on the sofa. He arched an eyebrow at her over the rim of his mug as he drank.

"I've never figured out your tell, Connor. But I know that was bullshit you just told him."

She glanced towards the bedroom door. "Half-bullshit," she conceded. "We'll have to take it easy until we're both a little stronger, but we have a chip from a Kaliba Triple 8, and I know for sure now that those bastards set us up at the Dysons'."

Derek's eyes widened, and he listened without interrupting as she recounted what Auldridge had told her about Danny Dyson's disappearance.

When she had finished, he only had one question, and it was the one she had no answer for. "So where is Danny Dyson?"

"I don't know." She set her empty mug down. "He may well be dead, but our best chance to find out is by hacking that chip."

"John'll do it," Derek said with certainty. "You just need to give him a little time."

"Mmm." Her eyes were closing despite her best efforts, and she made no attempt to resist as Derek stood her up and guided her into the bedroom, pulling back the blankets for her.

She wasn't quite quick enough to hide a grimace as she lowered herself onto the bed. "God," she hissed, her hand pressed against her chest. "Why the hell did they have to break the same three ribs? Is there a kick here sign on them that I've never fucking noticed?"

He sat down beside her; there was bitterness in his voice despite his smile. "Looking at you, they seem to have kicked pretty much everywhere."

"Yeah, I guess they did." She couldn't really disagree, but her tone told him that she was too tired to make an issue out of it. She yawned and lay down carefully, turning onto her side and letting out a breath when the position proved to be comfortable.

"Need any pills?" He figured there was no harm in asking, but wasn't surprised when she shook her head.

"I'm fine."

"Okay, then." He stood up to leave, but she lifted her head to look at him.

"Cameron set a perimeter?"

"Yes."

"She out there now?"

"Yes."

"You've not seen anyone around here?" Her voice was barely more than a mumble.

"No." He sat down on the bed again. "We are officially in the middle of fucking nowhere. Go to sleep."

"The machine found my mom here." She had forced her eyes open, the thought setting her heart racing, but he was shaking his head.

"That was different, Sarah. Everything's different now, and they won't find us here."

He didn't know if she heard him, and he would never know if she believed him, but she did go to sleep. He watched her for a few minutes more before he picked up a spare pillow, left the door open a crack and went back out to the living room to make his own bed on the sofa.

. . . . .

The sweater was old and at least two sizes too big for Sarah, but it was comfortable, it hid most of her injuries, and she had been able to pull it on by herself. The trunk in her bedroom was full of clothes, enough for all four of them, although Cameron would have to tone down her predilection for skimpy tops and short skirts. The clothing – mainly jeans, T-shirts and thick sweaters – was nothing if not practical.

It was still early, but Sarah's sleep had been dreamless and she felt better for it. She ached all over, but the Tylenol seemed to have kicked in to some extent, and she could move without as much discomfort as on the previous day.

Muffled clanks from the main part of the cabin told her that someone was awake and trying to be quiet. As soon as she stepped out of the bedroom, the smell of frying food hit her, and she followed it into the kitchen.

"Hey." Derek kept his voice low, indicating with a nod that John was still asleep.

"Hey," she said, distracted by the fresh bread, fruit, ham, and eggs. "Where did you get this?"

"Store about twenty klicks north. It's near to a fishing lake John found on the 'net. We also have ten bucks' worth of live bait if you're really hungry."

"No questions?" Even food that smelled this good wasn't worth the risk of their safety being compromised.

"No questions," he confirmed. "Just a recommendation for a decent spot on the south side of the jetty, and apparently Tuesday is the day for fresh fruit pies."

She smiled and relaxed slightly, picking up a fork as he set a steaming plate in front of her. "I have no idea what day it is," she admitted, around a mouthful of ham.

"Thursday. I bought enough to see us over the weekend when the lake might be busier. Figured we'd be here for that long at least."

She nodded with some reluctance, not relishing the prospect of another period spent recuperating before being able to start exercising again. He sat beside her with his own plate and they ate in silence for a few minutes. It was Derek who spoke first.

"So, what do we do now?"

Sarah laid her fork down and added cream to her coffee. "Finish your breakfast. Then we'll go for a walk."

. . . . .

It had rained again overnight and the mist still hung low in the forest, shrouding the trees, but drifting gently upwards as the sun began to burn through and chase it away. The air was moist, spiced by the pine needles that Derek and Sarah crushed as they walked, and by the earthier scents of the leaf-litter beneath. Aside from their footsteps, the only sounds came from birds declaring their territories in fierce song and from squirrels quarrelling over the abundant pinecones. They made slow but steady progress, stopping frequently for Sarah to check landmarks and catch her breath. There were no paths. No tourists ventured here, and any trail Sarah might once have made had long since been swallowed up by the undergrowth.

She stopped in a small clearing, and Derek unscrewed a bottle of water, handing it to her.

"Thanks." She drank deeply, perspiration darkening her tank top, her sweater knotted around her waist.

"How much further?" He was beginning to worry about her getting back to the cabin, but she shook her head and smiled.

"We're here."

She gave him the bottle and walked into the center of the clearing, dropping to her knees and digging her hand into the rotting leaves.

"What the hell…?" Whatever else he was about to say was forgotten as he watched her unearth a thick chain; he moved quickly to help her.

"You should be able to feel the edges now."

Looking down, he realized that she was right. Lifting the chain had caused the ground to sink and shift slightly and, working the shape with his fingers, he traced out a large rectangle. He could feel the sturdy wood and waterproof covering that protected whatever lay beneath. Turning to face her, he raised an eyebrow.

"Always be prepared, huh?"

She nodded. "Always."

It took them over an hour to clear the lid enough for them to be able to open it. Derek grunted and strained, the chain working blisters onto his palms as it lifted the wood clear and exposed the dark chamber that had remained concealed for years. Joining him at the edge, Sarah shone a flashlight into its depths.

He made an after you gesture. "Ladies first."

The small ladder was in good condition; even one-handed, Sarah negotiated it with no difficulty, waiting at the bottom for Derek to join her. When he had done so, he panned the flashlight around the space, his teeth glinting white as he grinned.

"Fuck." He moved to one of the shelves and ran his hand across a pristine assault rifle. "You really did prepare, didn't you?"

"Yes." She punched a code into a safe and opened it to reveal thousands of dollars. "I fell in with a group of gun-runners in Mexico. They were quite prolific and it paid well. Not the type of money to open a bank account with, though."

"No." He flicked a wad of bills through his fingers. "Try explaining this on a waitress' salary."

"More than enough to buy John the tech he'll need," she said, drawing out a few hundred dollars for immediate use before closing the safe again. She felt Derek's hands on her shoulders as he turned her to face him.

"Sarah, you sure you want to go there?"

"I'm sure." There was no doubt in her voice. "This isn't about revenge, Derek. Kaliba have metal, and factories with human employees. They built the drone. They're the closest connection to Skynet that we have, and they know who we are."

"They might believe you died."

"They might." She nodded. "But they won't take that chance with John. They'll come looking for him."

"Just a matter of time," he said quietly.

She looked around the armory, satisfied that it was watertight and held everything that they needed. With her hands on the ladder, she met Derek's eyes.

"It's always a matter of time."

. . . . .

The sun was warm when Sarah lifted her face towards the sky; she closed her eyes, feeling the heat dry the sweat on her forehead. With a final flurry of leaves, Derek stepped away from the re-concealed armory and sat beside her. Leaning up against the thick tree-trunk, he wiped his hand across his face, dirt and sweat smeared in its wake.

"We should get back," he said, gulping the water she had given him.

"Yes." She made no attempt to move. Rummaging in their bag, she pulled out a peach and bit a chunk out of it, the juice running down her fingers to drip onto the ground.

"They'll be wondering where we are."

"I know." Another bite, and the juice reached her elbow.

"John'll send Cameron…"

"Probably," she said, and shivered as he took the peach from her and lifted her fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean one by one, then swirled his tongue across her palm.

"And she'll find us like this…" His voice was low and entirely unconcerned as he unfastened her pants, pulling them down and off the one leg she had managed to kick a boot from, before fumbling with his own zipper.

"Better make it quick then," she said, her breath hot in his ear, her teeth sharp on the lobe, as she straddled him and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck.

He didn't deign to reply to that as he guided himself to her entrance and felt her slick warmth. For all her talk of speed, she took him in slowly, ignoring the pain of her wounds and concentrating, instead, on the rough flutters of pleasure that built as she moved above him. His hands were on her hips, lifting and rocking her gently, and they stayed like that for a while, finding a languorous rhythm, before he shifted one hand lower, the pad of his thumb rubbing across her clit. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue pushing hot and eager into his mouth, and he suddenly went rigid, his eyes closing as he came with a groan. He panted raggedly against her chest and she gradually stilled before pulling away from him.

He opened his eyes, then, and smiled. "C'mere."

Spreading her sweater on the ground, he laid her down onto it and parted her thighs. One sock and one boot flailed in the leaf-litter as he ran his tongue hard over her clit. Already so close, she came within seconds, his mouth still lazily working her until she grabbed his shirt and dragged him upwards. Peach juice and salt and sex intermingled as they kissed, and Sarah smiled, feeling Derek's lips curl into a grin.

"Fuck." She laughed, one arm coming up to cover her eyes, the other resting across her ribs. "Ow."

"Yeah." He was still grinning as he moved off her and retrieved his pants, hopping into them clumsily.

"We're in the middle of the woods, Derek."

"Yeah." He knelt and plucked a leaf from her hair. "I noticed."

"We're in the middle of a war." Her voice was quiet as she gripped his hand and stood with him.

"I know." He helped her to kick her leg back into her pants, then pulled them up and fastened them for her. "But you can't fight all the time, Sarah."

"No," she whispered, lassitude creeping into every part of her. "I guess not."

"So rest for a while." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they moved to sit together again beneath the trees. "And then we'll get back."

He felt her nod against his chest and heard her low murmur of agreement. The sky was a brilliant blue above them, a warm breeze rustling through the tree canopy. For a moment, Derek allowed himself to believe that the apocalypse wasn't imminent, that the forest floor was just earth and roots and didn't conceal enough weaponry to equip a small army. He touched Sarah's face gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek and ignoring the fact that her skin underneath was green and yellow with fading bruises. There was no mission pending where they were all likely to get killed, and the slightly uncomfortable ache in the small of his back wasn't caused by his Glock pressing against the rough bark.

The illusion barely held for a minute, but it was utterly peaceful while it lasted, and Derek found himself smiling. Nestled in his arms, Sarah's breathing was already slow and regular; he tightened his hold on her and let her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.  
> Just a very quick thank you again to cats_paws and roxybisquaint for the beta, and to everyone who's left feedback during the last few weeks. I torment these characters for my own entertainment, but it's always nice to know that others are coming along for the ride… :-)


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